DESTINATION: MUTINY by Sean Dalton.
Operation Starhawks 5.


Ouoji flattened her belly to the deck and crept closer to the security checkpoint. Overhead, one of the monitoring cams swiveled fourteen degrees. Ouoji froze in place. Her body was stretched almost to full length, and she had pressed herself as close to the wall as possible. A nervous quiver passed through her body from her muzzle to the tip of her bushy tail, but she controlled it.
The cam read only sharp contrasts of color, such as the uniform colors of fleet crimson or Spec. Ops. black; it could not scan the slight differentiation of her smoky gray fur from the metallic hue of the walls and deck.
The scanner modules within the cam detected a range of body temperatures between thirty-four and seventy degrees Celsius; Ouoji had lowered her body temperature to thirty-three. To do so for a long period of time would endanger the unborn cubs she carried within her womb, for they must be kept warm, but Ouoji did not intend for this task to take long.
She waited a few seconds more, hissing with impatience, until the cam swiveled another fourteen degrees down the corridor. Its vision range was past her. She hurried forward,
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slinking like quicksilver to the counter. In a flash she leaped to the top of it and over the other side. Her body skimmed beneath the barrier sensor beams with less than a centimeter to spare.
Pleased, she turned her round head from side to side and blinked a moment at the airlock which was dogged down and sealed electronically less than two meters away. Her tail twitched, and she jumped back on top of the counter.
Being careful not to let any part of her body brush the sensor beams, Ouoji curled her tail tightly about her feet and studied the control panel.-The cam overhead swiveled back to its intermediate position. She blinked, aware of the urgency within Siggerson lurking at the opposite end of the corridor. There were twelve seconds to go before the cam spotted her.
Most of the control switches had to do with cam and scanner activation, height placement, and sensitivity of the sensor beams criss-crossing the entire corridor at heights of two meters, one and one half meters, one meter, and one half meter. There was a secondary relay system designed to signal an alarm within Station 4's security offices if anything was switched off without authorization.
Ouoji knew what to do with that. Using her left front paw she slowly pushed in the proper unlocking code on the numerical keypad. The red activity lights remained on, but beneath them a green light began blinking a query that indicated she had made no errors. Ouoji shut down the secondary relay system first, then the primary just as the cam swiveled toward her.
The cam froze in position, and the irritating subsonic hum of the sensor beams ceased. Ouoji lifted her ear flaps in relief and cluttered for Siggerson to come.
He appeared cautiously, then broke into a grin and ran down the corridor.
"Good girl!" he said. "You did everything exactly right."
Ouoji slitted her eyes in pleasure and jumped off the counter. While Siggerson fitted a lock breaker to the airlock, Ouoji went to work on raising her body temperature back to normal levels. She sat up on her haunches and curled her head down to nudge
her belly. All the cubs' heartbeats remained in good rhythm with her own. They had not been harmed.
"Got it," said Siggerson, and the airlock opened. "Come on, Ouoji."
He went through the lock, and Ouoji bounded after him. Past the airlock, they went down a narrow corridor that led to the secured hangar. This area held enemy ships that had been captured in battle. Stolen ships that had been recovered went in here until they were claimed by the companies who established legal ownership. Cargo storage contained black market goods that had been impounded. There was even a small scoutship bearing an Internal Affairs registration number parked along­side two craft that had to belong to Covert Operations.
Just beyond them lay the Sabre, berthed and silent, her hull gleaming ghostly white in the muted hangar lights. Siggerson gazed at her a moment through the small viewport. Longing and anger choked his throat. They had no right to park her in here with the derelicts, pending a conduct investigation of her crew. No right at all.
Ouoji chittered impatiently, and Siggerson realized he didn't have time to stand around. At any minute someone in Security could discover that the alarm systems were down.
"Coming," he said.
Ouoji trotted ahead of him, leading the way with swishes of her tail. Together they passed down the small docking tube to the Sabre's airlock. Its security lock had not been changed. Siggerson opened it quickly.
Inside, the Sabre was dark and dead. Her air smelled stale. Switching on a small hand torch, Siggerson fumbled through a locker and pulled out an oxygen mask. There was no point in using up the air residue left in the ship.
With his breath hissing audibly through the mask, Siggerson made his way quickly to the teleport bay on deck three. His torch stabbed here and there through the gloom. Silence crushed the air.
Searching through the storage lockers, Siggerson located the harness he had rigged up for Ouoji to carry things. Fastening this about her, he smoothed the silky fur along her plump sides.
"This barely fits you now," he said. "You're getting to be a butterball, Ouoji-girl."
Ouoji's blue eyes flashed in the torchlight. She cluttered an answer. Aware that she didn't like to be called fat, Siggerson hid his smile. He fastened two of the teleport wristbands to her harness.
"Ready to go?"
Oubji bounced on her sturdy forelegs and trotted ahead of him all the way to the airlock. Before he let her out, however, she butted her head against his legs.
"I'll be careful," he said, aware that if he were caught here he would face serious charges. "Out you go. Do you remember how to reset the security system? Should I repeat it to you?"
Ouoji raised her ear flaps, then trotted to the airlock and lashed her tail.
"Okay, you remember. Safe flight, Ouoji."
Siggerson opened the airlock and cycled her through. As soon as she was gone, the gloom seemed darker. He stood there a moment, following her progress with his mind's eye. There was no need to worry about her. Ouoji could do the job.
He sighed and started for the engine room. Stealing a ship from a space station was no easy task. He had a lot to do in the next few hours.
Caesar Samms walked along the broad concourse of Station 4's central axis. This was the area best known to the civilian visitors, for it had been designed to resemble a small park. Delicate ornamental trees, a sort of springy, blue-gray carpet of creeper to cover the ground, flagstone walkways, pots of blooming flowers in Terran and Minzanese varieties, pools and miniature waterfalls were laid out in such a way as to conceal the pyrillium deck and walls. The concourse was the enly large place in the station not curved. Overhead a holo created a synthetic sky—something much needed in the dark reaches of space.
Today the sky was Earth blue, complete with fluffy cumulus clouds and birds on wing. Every thirty-six hours the sky changed to represent a different world in the Alliance. It was
always day in Concourse Park. If you wanted to see stars you could go to any external viewport.
Along the sides of the park ranged expensive, duty-free shops with wares to tempt the pay credits of crews on leave. At either end stood comm shops, advertising datatrons and parcel shipment anywhere.
Caesar avoided the shops. He didn't want to run into any of his bar buddies and get dragged off to share drinks. Instead, he wandered through the park and pretended to be enjoying nature.
The tough thing about going AWOL was remembering that what had always been home ground was now enemy territory to be escaped. It took an entire mind shift. The worst disadvantage was being well-known. Your fighting style, your tactics, even your thinking pattern were familiar to this particular enemy. The key, therefore, became finding the precise moment in which to catch old friends off guard. It was a small moment, a fleeting moment. It might never come at all.
In which case, thought Caesar grimly, they would have to create a chance. And that could become messy.
Where was Phila? Restlessly Caesar checked his chron. She should have been here by now. The fact that she wasn't meant that Ouoji was late. And if Ouoji was late, that meant she and Siggerson could have been caught breaking into the ship.
A cold sweat ran down Caesar's spine. He didn't mind risks, but he didn't want a prison cell at the end of them.
Besides, he was acutely aware of the tiny floater tailing him. It measured about the size of his hand, which made it hard to spot in the crowds. It also had the capability of attaching itself to the ceiling or a wall to avoid detection. Since it was colored in the same utilitarian shade of station gray, it blended in.
But Caesar wore a scanner beneath his tunic, and its gentle pulses against his chest warned him that the floater was still with him. He checked its location, spotted it, and let his eyes wander casually in search of Phila.
Come on, toots. Don't let us down.
Snoops ran through this station like cockroaches. Caesar had never cared before, but until now he hadn't much to hide
beyond some contraband ale that he bought sometimes off the station's black market. He'd spent his life running surveillance on targets, but he disliked being a target himself. The floater made him itchy between the shoulder blades.
But a rendezvous in the park was notoriously hard to monitor, especially with the running water to serve as white noise. He sat down upon a pseudo-stone bench and frowned. What was keeping her? He checked the time again and tried to smother growing worry.
There wouldn't have been any need for this sneaking around if Internal Affairs hadn't gotten a wasp in their windpipe over 41's desertion. Everyone had tried to explain to those boo-heads that 41 had been working undercover with the meres and had been kidnapped by them off Kenszana, but IA wasn't buying the story. The fact that Kelly was stuck in a detox hospital didn't help any. The whole squad was under investi­gation for improper procedures, and Zoe was behind part of it with demands for a full inquiry into Colonel Nash's death.
Caesar snorted to himself. Nash had been a bastard. Getting nibbled to death by a coscacun in the swamps of Kenszana was exactly what he deserved. But the brass didn't see it that way. "Interplanetary incident," Caesar muttered aloud. "Hah!" "So you've snapped, is that it?" said a voice that made him jump violently. "Talking to yourself in the park. Bad sign, Samms."
Caesar turned to see Phila standing behind him with a wicked grin on her face. He drew in a breath and tried to slow his racing heartbeat.
"Very funny," he said. "You trying to be Miss Lightfoot, or what?"
"You and Siggerson are taking this whole thing too seri­ously. " Sweeping her black mane of curly hair back over her shoulders, Phila Mohatsa came around the end of the bench and sat down beside him. Her small hand touched his, and Caesar palmed the wristband she passed him with a feeling of breathlessness.
"Relax," she said, grinning. "The whole operation is simple. I'm going to make the last records tap right now—"
"Not so loud," said Caesar, fresh perspiration breaking out. "There's a floater—"
"Where?"
"Behind us, past the trees, seven o'clock."
She glanced over her shoulder. "Too far away."
"It could have a sensitive mike."
"Mandalel Trust me, okay?"
He sighed. "Okay. So you make the tap. Never mind the fact that if you get caught breaking security buffers, even to make free piggyback calls on the nets, you're facing galactic indictments and—"
"Shut up," she snapped. "I know what I'm doing. You've got to get into the arsenal right away. There're three frigates going out on maneuvers in forty-eight minutes."
Caesar looked at her. "The chance we've been waiting for."
"That's right. So move tail, Caesar. We've got work to do."
He stood up. "Right. Does Siggie know about this?"
"He does. That's why I was late."
"Watch for floaters."
Phila smiled at him and gave him a thumbs up. "Hurry."
Caesar left the concourse like a bat fleeing the rising sun. Forty-four minutes . . . Yususl He quickened his stride until he was just short of a run. It wasn't enough time for all they still had to do, and yet they'd known from the start of this plan that the crucial stuff would come at the last minute. There was no way to steal weapons to restock their depleted arsenal ahead of time without tipping off Internal Affairs.
He passed an officer's lounge. The double entry doors were opened while the lounge was being cleaned. Glancing inside as he jogged past, Caesar could see straight through to the enormous viewport overlooking the hangar area. Warning lights were flashing out there in the bay, and technicians in environmental suits were floating out on their tethers to set up taxi lanes.
During all the hangar activity, monitors were less likely to pick up the Sabre's departure until she was out of the station.
The floater stayed with him like a shadow. Caesar cursed it
and ducked into an emergency service ladder chute. He descended two levels in swift order.
When he emerged again into a corridor, he grinned to himself. He'd lost the floater.
Another one picked him up within minutes, hovering ahead of him at eye level as though to make a proper identity check. Caesar slapped it aside, upsetting its gravity stabilizers so that it dipped and nearly crashed into the wall.
"Out of my way," he muttered.
It bobbed after him, then stopped. A grinding noise came from it, and Caesar figured he'd damaged its motor control. He hoped it burned itself out. By the time another one showed to pick up his trail, he figured he'd be safely out of sight.
He ducked into an alcove of lockers and swiftly unlocked the one he'd rented over two weeks ago. Glancing out to make sure no one was coming, he yanked a pair of dirty technician coveralls on over his uniform. They smelled of coolant, and a few places were so worn the wiring showed through. His forged IDent badge clipped to his collar was likewise so scratched and worn that only a close examination would be able to read it. A scanner readout would probably be faulty. Not that he expected to have to pass through any scanners.
He jumped aboard a conveyor. Caesar adjusted his balance and began to jog through the passengers gliding along.
A Minzanese woman in the crisp tunic of station personnel glared at him as he brushed past her. "Illegal!" she snapped. "Improper use of conveyor. Demerits to record."
"Up yours," retorted Caesar and kept going.
Just short of an upcoming intersection of corridors, he vaulted the safety railing, ran across diagonally, and vaulted the railing onto the intersecting conveyor. A cadet whistled in admiration. Caesar waved, feeling like an idiot, and ran faster.
He burst into Engineering, caught his toe on the raised threshold, tripped, and saved himself from sprawling only by a complicated twist and wriggle. Luck was with him. The place was deserted except for a man in a lab smock, who came forward with a frown.
"Thirty-five minutes to launch!" shouted Caesar at the top of his lungs. "Where's our Forte filter?"
The technician sighed. "Do you have your repair requisition chit?"
"Right here, pal." Caesar pulled a grubby flimsy from his pocket and slapped it on the nearest work station. "Move it, move it, move it! You promised it would be ready yesterday, and we still don't have it. We're on launch countdown, and the captain is going to have my guts for garters."
The technician peered at the chit with a puzzled frown. "I don't recognize this. Nuvey?" he called, and a woman ap­peared in the far doorway. "Check on this, will you? Are you sure you've got the right work order?"
Caesar shrugged. "That's it. Come on. Either produce it or fit us out with a new one. Do you expect us to go at time distort without anything filtering out Forte radiation?"
"You can stand down as unready," said the woman.
Caesar gave her a disgusted look. " Yo, you want to tell that to my captain? You said it would be ready, so why isn't it? Slacking on the job, you are."
"We'll check," they said coldly.
Caesar paced restlessly up and down between the work stations while the two technicians conferred. The chit was another forgery; there shouldn't be a filter in for repairs at all. Caesar hoped they spent a long time looking.
As soon as they left the room, Caesar whipped through a side door marked NO ACCESS, using a security-override entry card he'd picked up on the black market for times like this. No one was supposed to know that this was a back entry to the heavily guarded arsenal. But Caesar knew about it.
Within three minutes he had coshed a guard, blanked out the scanner system, and entered the arsenal storehouse. Panting a little, he looked around the area.
"What are you doing in here?" demanded a sharp voice.
Caesar's hand was in his pocket as he spun around. He stunned the engineer before the man realized what he was about. A quick check around determined that the rest of the
arsenal was empty. Caesar worked fast, jamming all the access points.
Then he surveyed the racks of weapons, explosives, and larger artillery pieces—all rowed up neatly.
He grinned. "Just like the candy store."
He moved fast, slinging die-hards over his shoulder. These old plasma rifles were getting a bit dated, but they were still the most dependable range weapon made. He piled them up in a corner and trotted down another row, scooping up packets of explosives.
Hand weapons ... he frowned, wasting precious seconds in indecision. Better have something stout. He made for the bi-muzzle Maxell pistols—real beauties, these, with good fit to the hand, extreme accuracy, and plenty of punch. If they were going up against cyborgs, the tougher their ammo the better.
He dropped another armload onto his growing pile of loot and checked his chron. Not much time left. Gulping in a breath, he ran down another row. Body armor? Hot and uncomfortable, but necessary. He came around the end of a row, frowning with urgency, and stopped short.
Before him on a table lay a series of modified launchers so new they didn't even have their model serials stamped into the butt plates yet. Caesar drew in a breath of pure admiration and picked up one.
It was unbelievably light. Graphite housing, with a tabbed scope possessing sensory scales from infrared on up to molec­ular heat shift, a shell ejection kick so smooth it was soundless, and more compact than the old shoulder-slung models. Caesar pushed a button, and a stablizer arm kicked out from the butt to fit against the crook of his elbow. It could be fired like a pistol, and a sensor wire up the arm and hooked over the ear put all the scope sensors straight to the brain. Caesar was in love.
He scooped all of them into his arms and added them to his pile. Then he began searching for the ammo. They were designed for special-length shells. So where were these babies?
Heat seekers . . . long-range . . . short-range . . . old
Kloper charges . . . gas pellets. Caesar crawled along the ammo shelves on his hands and knees, checking containers.
He was taking too long. Twelve minutes to launch point. He had to leave now or he'd never be able to run all the way to the security hangar. Besides, at any minute someone was going to discover the security system had been breached. If he got caught in here, the guards would shoot first and ask questions later.
He ran out of containers and jerked himself to his feet, his kneecaps aching, frustration digging through him. He raised his wrist to his mouth, ready to call Siggerson, and saw a box near the wall.
It had no markings. Just like the launchers, he thought with a rise of excitement. He jerked open the container and grinned at the beauties lying inside in slim deadly rows.
Plasma missiles, just like the ones the Sabre carried, only in miniature size. Starship firepower right in the palm of his hand.
He whistled under his breath, aware that if he took these he was going so far over the line he'd never get back. They were ultra secret. He hadn't even heard a murmur about any weapons development along this line. He had plenty of firepower already. He didn't need to grab these.
But Caesar's hand remained on the ammo box. The very concept of these little missiles took his breath away. He could no more pass up the chance of trying them than he could stop his own heartbeat.
"Idiot," he said softly. "If you think Kelly's going to get you out of this one, you're crazy." He grinned to himself. "So let's be crazy."
He hoisted the box with a grunt and carried it over to his stockpile. Winded, he called Siggerson on his wrist comm.
"Ready," he said. "Tieonto my voice signal, and teleport."
"Acknowledged," replied Siggerson's voice. "Stand clear."
Caesar darted back and started to disengage his wristband so that there would be no chance of the teleport signal fastening partially onto him. Within the station there were so many overlapping signal waves and transmissions that teleporting
people was simply too dangerous. Caesar would have to get himself out of here the same way he came in.
But just as he started for the door, he heard muffled shouts from the other side and the sound of the lock cycling open.
"Hell!" he said sharply under his breath. He glanced around for a hiding place but he already knew there wasn't one.
He had only one way out. Swiftly, not giving himself a chance to think, he climbed into the middle of his loot. There was no time to tell Siggerson that he was coming along on the signal. Caesar saw the door slide open.
Guards rushed in, shouting just as displacement made the world go fuzzy. He had time to envision himself materializing on the Sabre with all of his body parts rearranged, then with a jolt he was nowhere at all.
Leaving Caesar in Conc6urse Park, Phila went past the comm shop with all the customers lined up meekly to pay exorbitant prices for calls to their homeworlds. Since getting her communications training, she hadn't paid once. It was easy to make piggyback calls on the nets. All you needed was the expertise to keep tracers from picking up your trail through the interfacing systems.
But tapping into the data files of Covert Operations was not easy. In fact, it was damned scary. She had a tracer following her around right now, trying to tag onto her tap. That had her worried plenty. Of course she knew better than to run on direct wire. If she got caught on wire, the tracer would lock her in and she'd sit there with all her neural circuits jammed so tight she couldn't physically move—wrapped up nice for the MPs to pick up. But even hacking in the old-fashioned way had its problems. If the tracer found the keyboard she was using, it could take sensor impressions of her fingerprints.
The agents in Covert Ops. were the original paranoids. Their files were wrapped under so many security tabs it took longer and longer for her to tap in. Data retrieval was almost
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impossible. Thus far, she'd been able to bleed off data only by duplicating it, then pulling it off before the mother circuit finished its loop and cancelled the duplication request.
She could only pull that trick two or three times per tap in, which meant every few seconds she had to erase and climb out, then find another way in. It was slow, frustrating work.
So far, however, it had been worth it. She had three-fourths of the investigations file on 41 and some juicy information on Harva Opie's mercenary business. All she wanted now was the list of Opie's bases and their security password codes, and she'd be finished.
Dodging the floater tailing her was easy, but to be doubly cautious she ran a scanner over her clothes to make sure she hadn't picked up any bugs. She and Caesar had met several times in the park; it was conceivable that micro-dot-sized homing transmitters could have been planted on the bench to adhere to her clothing and pinpoint her location.
The scanner search didn't turn one up. Satisfied, Phila found a deserted stretch of corridor and swiftly unlocked a service tube. Locking it behind her, she scanned ahead to make sure no technicians were working in this section. None were.
She hurried along the tube, crouching slightly to keep her head from brushing the top. When she came to a circuit box about a meter square, she grinned to herself and set about opening it. She lacked the transmitter frequency to unlock it, but the stout center blade of her prong pried the edges open enough for her to clamp off the alarm signal.
A couple of judicious wire snips later, and she had the whole thing open. A brightly colored maze of intricate opticals, plus gel-bonded communications cells the size of her thumbnail, each capable of holding over five-thousand megabytes of signal data, and thick cluster cables presented itself to her.
From her pocket she pulled her data scoop and wired it in. She checked for traps with care, and found two obvious ones and three extremely well-hidden ones.
It was hot in the tunnel. Perspiring, Phila forced herself to forget the urgency of her deadline and concentrate. There
would be all kinds of safeguards on these lines. The storage size alone warned her of that.
The keypad built into the box waited for her. She jacked in her first tap line, heard the first warning beep of a protected line, and yanked the jack quickly. For a few seconds she knelt there, her heart pounding too fast. Then she drew a deep breath and reset her scanner to check for signal variations. She didn't think it was sensitive enough, but it was all she had. Running it over the area she wanted to infiltrate, she registered four line protectors.
"Scatsi paranoids," she muttered aloud.
She rubbed the sweat from her eyes and jacked in at a dangerous junction of four different systems of data transmis­sion. Easy to get traced here, but it was the only point not protected. She looped into an entry program fast, worked her way out through a bypass function, and plunged deeper to actual interface.
Reaching the data she wanted, she broke into a file, saw a tracer heading for her, and popped out again too fast for it to follow her. Breathing hard, Phila considered the risks a moment. She didn't want to blow everything just to get this information, but the more she could get the better their chances.
After a moment she decided not to enter the file again. She could just set up her old duplication ploy and bleed off data blind.
A glance at her chron told her she didn't have the time to do that. Fifteen minutes until she had to be on the Sabre, and she was a whole station away from it. No, whatever she was going to get, she had to get now.
She threw caution aside and activated her data scoop. She jacked it right in on the main entry line, figuring all the tracers would be hovering over her last, more devious access trail. A couple of keystrokes, and she was in. The scoop started draining straight from the core data.
A light flashed at her. She moved to cancel the drain, but this time the tracer was too fast for her. It jumped down the line and
found her keyboard. Heat seared her fingertips, making her cry out.
The pain was agonizing, and she knew the only way to avoid serious damage was to not pull away from the keyboard. But another tracer was going into her data scoop. If she didn't act fast, it would melt all the data she'd acquired.
Yanking her fingers off the hot keyboard, she pulled the jack on the data scoop. An electric shock knocked her into the opposite side of the tunnel.
Winded, she lay there a moment, clutching the data scoop in her hands. She was too dazed at first to remember what had happened.
Then the stun wore off. She sat up groggily and tucked the data scoop back into her pocket. Her fingers were bleeding.
The light was still flashing over the circuits. Phila blinked and realized that she had to get out of here fast.
She ran back the way she'd come and emerged into the main corridor. She was leaving bloody smears everywhere, although she tried to wipe off her hands on the wall before she came out. Fingerprint registry would have her by now. Her DNA print in the blood would seal her guilt.
She wanted to swear. She wanted to weep. The risks which hadn't seemed so awful before now loomed at her. She thought of prison and being mind wiped, and panicky determination filled her. They weren't going to get her.
Breaking into a run, she headed for the security hangar. At some point she would have to decide whether to stay in the main corridors or return to the service tunnels.
The whoop-whoop-whoop of an MP siren made her glance back. She saw an MP buggy approaching. The buggies were small carts used for corridor transportation and ran silently off the station's power. Seeing her, one of the MPs shrilled his whistle.
Phila lengthened her stride into a flat-out run. Resisting a summons was a serious misdemeanor in and of itself, worth a night in the brig, but right now that was the least of her worries.
As she ran she kept looking for another service hatch.
Nothing. This stretch of corridor held mostly offices and conference rooms. People stuck their heads out to watch her go by. At any minute she figured she'd run into some zealous fleeter who'd stun her down. Or the buggy was going to get close enough for them to get a good shot at her back.
Where the hell was a service hatch?
Rounding a bend in the corridor, she spotted one and skidded up to it thankfully. It had no lock, and she yanked it open and found herself looking at a hole about half a meter in diameter. She slid herself in feet first, on her back, and at once felt a tug of suction. That meant the garbage tubes in this section of the station were in operation. Groping around the inside lip of the tube, she switched on the repair lights.
A warning label in red on the wall told her she'd guessed right. And if the tubes were in suction, that meant the garbage airlock could be open. If it were, she could fall out the bottom of this place.
Phila clung to the safety bar, her bloody fingers slipping, and knew she didn't dare risk it.
Then the hatch opened, spilling light in over her from the corridor. "You there!" shouted a voice. "Halt. That's a direct order."
On her homeworld where vendetta ruled and men made their own laws, to surrender tamely to authority was the sure mark of a coward. All the old ways surged up within her. She hesitated no longer, and released her hold on the bar.
At once the suction pulled her and she was sliding.
"Get her!"
A hand brushed her shoulder and just missed. Phila in­creased her speed by drawing up her legs and tucking her knees against her abdomen so that she went spiralling along the smooth tube bullet-like. The suction increased, drawing her down faster and faster until she had to tuck her chin down tight to her chest to protect her head.
This was dangerous. It was crazy. At any time she could hit a connecting tube, which might be running anything from garbage blocks to small equipment transfers. She'd been on Corridor 90, and Station 4 had one hundred six levels. Not too
far to fall. At least, not far compared to dropping all the way from the top of the station. Each level was four meters deep, and the most she could fall at this point was sixty-four meters, or, to work it out in antique measurements, two hundred eight feet. And if she figured in the rate of suction to calculate her approximate speed ...
Without warning she came to a tube intersection. The tubes did not cross at perpendicular angles, and Phila found herself slung in a stomach-wrenching semicircle that flipped her around and sent her hurtling on head first.
She was in major trouble now. The seamless, absolutely smooth tube interiors were designed to eliminate as much drag coefficient as possible to prevent hang ups that were costly and time-consuming to unblock. The degree of drop within the tube had gradually grown steeper. And the suction was stronger than ever.
Keep calm, Phila told herself. She tried not to think about how vulnerable the exposed back of her neck felt. If she hit anything solid, she would either crush her skull or snap her neck.
How many levels had she descended? She'd lost track. Getting flipped had disoriented her so that she couldn't even guess. She put out her elbows cautiously to create a drag.
The lights went out.
Fear burst in the back of her throat before she regained control of herself. The lights must be on a timer cycle, or she might have outrun the length of that circuit. But hurtling two hundred feet down a steep incline on your back, head first and in the dark, was a sure road to your Maker.
In the meantime, her elbows felt like she was burning all the hide off them. She didn't seem to be slowing much.
Phila extended her legs and spread them as wide as the sides of the tube would allow, feeling her feet bump along as she pressed them wider and wider. Her neck was beginning to cramp from being held tucked forward.
Now she could feel a slight reduction in speed. She grinned to herself and let herself hope that at the next connecting tube she might even be able to stop.
Pressing her feet harder against the tube sides, she flattened her palms against the bottom of the tube. Crying out against the burn, she strained until she reduced her speed by approxi­mately half. The suction made it difficult to maneuver herself around. She missed the first time and started sliding faster again.
Gritting her teeth, she slowed down gradually and tried again to spin herself around. This time she got halfway. The slope abruptly flattened, tossing her hard. From a side tube came a deluge of garbage blocks and some kind of stinking powder that fogged over her. The blocks were small and cube-shaped. Extracted, dehydrated, and compressed, they could be composed of the residue of anything from graphite shavings to food pulp that wasn't recyclable. They were heavy, and they hurt. The noise they made as they tumbled through the tube clanged on her hearing. The loose powder fogged into her eyes, nostrils, and mouth, choking her. It smelled horrible. Coughing, she lost her position and ended up tumbling onto her stomach, going head first again.
Ahead, light glowed softly. Although her eyes burned, at least now she could see again. She had her hands stretched out in front of her, and that made her feel a little safer.
Phila heard a roar and a deafening boom that echoed up the tube. Machinery sounds. She tensed. She was coming to the end at the bottom of the station, and this was garbage dump time. Her blood thudded against her eardrums. She didn't want to die like this.
The loud boom came again, followed by a warning klaxon that Phila knew all too well: an airlock activation warning.
Then she went shooting out the end of the tube and did a free fall through the garbage spill onto a metal grating which served as a sort of gigantic strainer. It caught the garbage blocks along with Phila.
Winded and gasping, Phila rolled onto her stomach and lifted her head just as the klaxon sounded again. The grating beneath her parted, and she hastily scrambled onto one half of it, clinging desperately with her fingers hooked in the steel mesh. The grating recessed halfway into the deck, going in far
enough to make Phila worry about it scraping her off. She stared straight down at the deep cargo airlock yawning chasm-like below her. Only one set of doors between her and space. She swallowed hard, sweating.
But the grating stopped just before she ran out of room. Relieved, she drew in a full breath and loosened her death grip on the grating.
The grating tipped down without warning to a forty-five degree angle. Garbage blocks tumbled down into the airlock. Phila slid with them, groping desperately in an effort to regain her hold. Her fingers curled into the mesh and finally con­nected with a cross-bar. She gripped it with a strength born of panic and dangled there, sobbing for breath.
Sweat ran into her eyes, blinding her. Her aching fingers felt as though they'd been peeled to the bone. Her knuckles ached from the strain of supporting her weight.
Wiping her face on her sleeve, Phila had a terrible vision of the deck sliding shut over the grating. Then it would be space dump time, and she would explode into tiny bits to float forever about the galaxy.
Don't think about it.
Trying not to panic, she started inching her way up the grating. Maybe the airlock had to fill to a certain level before it dumped. Why wasn't a human attendant watching this machinery? Couldn't anyone tell she was down here and in trouble? Hadn't those MPs reported where she went?
Phila got her right knee on the lip of the grating, and prayed she wouldn't slip as she groped upward with her left hand. She grabbed, missed, grabbed desperately, and connected with a cross-bar. The next cross-bar up put her head level with the deck. Clinging precariously with her left hand and her toes, she groped along the edge for a hold. She touched the control box and the klaxon sounded briefly, startling her. She panicked, thinking for a second that she had inadvertently activated the airlock.
The grating lifted under her and slid together over the airlock. She scrambled toward the safety of the deck, and made it just as one of the MPs came hurtling out of a tube and fell
screaming past Phila to land in the middle of the grating. He lay there crumpled and unmoving.
"Serves you right!" shouted Phila.
Then she heard an ominous click and the whine that told her the grating was sliding open. Cursing, Phila scrambled off her safety point back out onto the grating. She stumbled, strug­gling to keep her footing as the grating recessed into the deck.
The MP's legs were across the middle split, which was widening steadily. When his legs dropped through the gap, they would probably flip the man off the grating altogether. Phila saw his heels at the edge. With a gasp, she threw herself headlong at him and managed to grab his shoulder just in time.
Her fingers twisted into the cloth. The man slid away from her, dragging her with him. Phila hung on grimly and tugged the man toward the deck with all her might. Why did he weigh so damned much? At any second the grating would tilt, and she couldn't hold them both.
"Come on!" she shouted, grunting from the strain. "Wake up, dammit! Help me."
She heaved the man's head and shoulders onto the deck. The man's eyes opened.
"Wha'ppened?" he mumbled.
The grating shifted beneath Phila with a lurch that nearly threw her off balance. She jumped awkwardly and made it, then snatched at the man's back, dragging him farther onto the deck. The klaxon shrilled, and more garbage tumbled into the airlock below.
Phila felt the deck shift beneath her, and flinched. But this time it was the upper airlock doors that were closing. She was safe. Sagging to her knees, she closed her eyes in relief. Her heart was still pounding out of control. She dragged in deep breaths, trying to slow herself down.
A mighty rumble shook beneath them.
The MP jerked to a sitting position and looked around, his eyes wild. "What's that? What's going on?"
"That's the bottom falling out of the station. We nearly went with it." Throwing back her head, she laughed. "What a ride down!"
The man made a strangled noise. "You're crazy. Know that? Absolutely stark, staring crazy."
She rubbed her face and looked at her chron. Less than nine minutes to launch point. Fresh urgency hit her. She had to get to the ship. Rising to her feet, she looked around for the exit.
"Hold on," said the MP. "You're not going anywhere—"
She glared at him. "I just saved your butt. You going to arrest me for that?"
He had the grace to drop his gaze from hers. But then he drew his stunner. "Yeah," he said. "I've got to. Just stand where you are. Your fun is over."
Eight minutes to launch point.
On the Sabre Siggerson had his hands full, and things were getting worse every minute. It was criminal to start cold engines off their own battery reserves. Every shudder on the power readouts sent a sympathetic shudder through Siggerson. The engines ought to be warmed slowly and gently through a nine-hour period off the station's generators, until they were purring smoothly with all lines fluid and happy.
He glanced at Ouoji, who was pacing worriedly back and forth in front of the blanked viewscreen. "Where are they?"
She chittered softly.
Siggerson reached out to call Caesar, but before he could make the connection, Caesar's voice came over the speakers:
"Ready. Tie onto my voice signal and teleport."
Siggerson's hands raced over his console. He set the scanners onto Caesar's signal, wishing he could do this from the actual teleport bay. But he had too many other things to watch over.
Everything was flashing on his master board. Readouts came and went so fast he barely had time to register them. The bridge was as cold as a tomb since he had life support on minimum power, but he was still sweating. He needed to go down to the engine room and make a manual adjustment to the power feed to smooth out some of the vibration, but there wasn't time.
He glanced at Phila's station to check on the computers
which were supposed to be unlocking the security hangar doors. Program still running . . . which meant no luck yet.
Fresh sweat broke out along the back curve of his skull where his hair was already wet and matted. His coveralls were drenched.
A soft beep indicated the teleport coordinates were locked in. He frowned at the unsteady registries. Too many overlap­ping signals and energy waves. The teleport beam was too loose. Frowning, Siggerson worked on firming it up. He had intended to leave it on the cargo setting, but was forced to boost its energy wave to the organic setting—maximum safety setting—just to make sure he connected at all. At least it was just a pile of weapons he was trying to fasten onto.
"Attention, intruders," came a voice over the external communications line. "Abandon ship and surrender."
Siggerson looked up wildly. "Oh, hell!" He slapped the teleport control and dashed across the bridge to check on his lock breaking program.
The data screen flashed a complex series of numbers. Siggerson grinned broadly and activated the external sensors through the viewscreen. Yes, the hangar doors were opening. He saw the pressure-change warnings light up the gloomy interior and reflect off the hull of the ship next to the Sabre. Through the opening doors, he could glimpse the enormous main hangar, which hummed with launch activity.
The frigates were already being towed out. The station couldn't very well close external bay doors in mid-operation without creating a lot of havoc. But it could override Sigger­son's interference with the security hangar doors and close them again if he didn't take the ship out soon.
Where are Caesar and Philal
He hesitated a moment longer, wasting precious seconds. Never mind about the fact that he faced losing his pilot's license—the one possession he really cared about. Never mind that they were all going to be under indictment, with grim prison terms ahead of them if they weren't shot first. He had committed himself irrevocably to this course of action when he
broke into the Sabre. If he had to go without Caesar and Phila, he would.
It was the least he could do for turning 41 in.
He put helm controls onto manual and cast off electronic moorings.
"Disengaging airlock linkage," he said aloud. The echo of his voice reminded him that there was no one to talk to.
The teleport data flashed beam completion. Siggerson ig­nored it. Ouoji made a sound and trotted off the bridge. Siggerson ignored her too. There wasn't time for anything now but complete concentration on nudging the Sabre from her berth.
"Stealing a starship is an Alliance offense," intoned the voice on the external comm line. "Desist at once and surrender yourself, or ship's anti-theft system will engage."
Siggerson knew what that meant: life support cut and helm computer off line.
He went right on moving the Sabre, sweat pouring between his shoulder blades, his fingers feather light on the controls. His first job aboard had been to disconnect the anti-theft system. That was supposedly impossible, but he'd done it anyway. The Sabre was his baby, his home. He knew her better than any engineer.
"Siggie," gasped a hoarse voice over the in-ship line.
Siggerson jumped violently, and the Sabre swerved. He corrected her barely in time to avoid bumping the berth wall. His heart was thumping hard.
"Caesar?" he said uncertainly. He glanced at his controls, frowning. Were the signal lines crossed? "I can't wait. We're moving and I have already disengaged from the airlock. You'll have to—"
"I'm aboard," said Caesar.
His voice sounded horrible, almost unrecognizable. Some­thing was wrong. With horror Siggerson realized he must have teleported aboard. In that instant Siggerson forgot what he was doing. He stared blankly at the viewscreen, his hands slack on the helm. The risk ... the awful risk.
"Samms," he whispered finally, his mouth dry. "Are you—?"
"Come in. Come in!" shouted Phila's voice, faint and laced with static.
Siggerson felt as though he were trapped in a nightmare. "Phila?" he said. The Sabre cleared her berth. He boosted speed a fraction, praying the doors would hold open. "It's too late. We're—"
"Lock onto me and teleport! Now!"
Were they all mad? God alone knew what state Caesar was in. Siggerson had seen a botched teleport transmission victim only once. Even now, the memory of that horror turned his stomach. He couldn't do it to both of them.
"No, Phila," he said. "It's too dangerous. Caesar has—"
"Do it!" she yelled, her voice shrill. "He's going to shoot me! Siggerson—"
The teleport was tracking her. He had a lock on. Closing his eyes, Siggerson hit the control, then too late, saw the warning flashing on his data boards: PLATFORM ENGAGED. PLAT­FORM ENGAGED. PLATFORM ENGAGED.
He swore aloud. The teleport was fitted with the safety feature that enabled them to do multiple emergency pickups and delay materialization until the platform cleared. But the delay couldn't hold indefinitely.
The lights overhead blinked. Something had cut across their power wave. Jamming signals?
"I'll lose her!" shouted Siggerson. He switched helm to automateds, although this close to the hangar doors it was lunacy to do so, and engaged the force wall to buffer the ship from any more interference. By now he either had Phila somewhere within the transmission loop of the teleport system, or he didn't.
They were safe from outside interference now. Siggerson canceled the external comm line before any nasty surprises came over that. He opened the in-ship line.
"Caesar!" he said. "I've got to materialize Phila. Clear the platform. For God's sake, clear the platform. Do it now!"
Caesar didn't answer, and Siggerson had no more time to
spare for the teleport system, for just then the collision warning sounded.
The hangar doors were closing.
Stunned, he stared for what seemed an eternity. Then adrenaline kicked through him, and he flipped on his sensor data, specifying electronic configurations of the doors.
Their circuit grid formed upon his screen. He went to the weapons station and engaged it. Power lines were nominal. With the engines barely warmed, everything was still being diverted into the drive units. Siggerson was past the point of caring what might happen if he unleashed plasma energy within the station. He only knew he was getting out of here, no matter what it took.
He fired one quick, precise burst of bottom-level energy. The plasma melted through the left half of the doors, slagging it. Severed circuits shot sparks in brilliant color and caught fire. The right half of the doors stopped closing, but the opening remaining was too narrow for the Sabre to pass through. The closure warning over the doors flashed patheti­cally through the fire. A small detached part of Siggerson's brain decided he must have severed an oxygen feed line somewhere within the hangar bulkhead or there could be no fire.
"Ten seconds to collision," intoned the computer. "Warn­ing. Nine seconds to collision. Warning. Eight ..."
Siggerson forced himself to act. He aimed and fired again, using a slicing action which he hoped would take off the right half of the doors. It did, and he shot the Sabre into the main hangar with more speed than was prudent.
But Siggerson was beyond prudence. The viewscreen showed him a scene of chaos. Technicians on tethers were waving their signal lights frantically. One frigate had already cleared the external bay doors; the other two were still being towed. Repair cranes had been halted. Workers and engineers in environmental suits were scrambling as fast as null gravity would allow, trying to clear the area.
They think I'm going to shoot the whole place to bits, thought Siggerson. He smiled to himself and maneuvered the
Sabre around a cargo sled abandoned by its operator and floating dangerously in the way. He was in line now for tow, but of course no one would tow him out.
In the old Valiant, which was half the size of the Sabre, he could have skimmed past the frigates and cleared the external bay doors first. But he didn't have room.
After the tension of the past several minutes, all action seemed to have stopped. He grew conscious of his sweaty hands and his thudding heartbeat. The tension in his muscles made them ache. There was nothing he could do except wait his turn to exit the station. He was last in line, however, and the three frigates would be waiting to finish him as soon as he emerged.
Siggerson's knees felt rubbery. He longed to sit down, but he didn't. The odds kept narrowing with every passing second. However, the frigate captains were at a disadvantage in that they didn't know yet who had taken the Sabre. He knew exactly who he was up against. There wasn't a pilot aboard any of the frigates who could match him, j/he just had enough time to get the Sabre clear.
If was a big word.
He swallowed, but his mouth stayed dry. The minutes ticked off the chron like hours, like eons. But he knew what he had to do.
He waited, holding himself patient, until the last frigate's stern cleared the hangar doors. He was too close for the hangar chief to try shutting them. The potential damage to the station if the Sabre were crushed there was too great.
Siggerson waited a moment longer, then his forefinger went out to waver control. He pushed it, and the ship shuddered responsively.
As far as he knew no one had ever activated his waver shield inside a station. Siggerson knew his sudden disappearance from sight and sensor would throw the frigate captains into confusion. Naturally they would have timed his velocity and would be urging their crew to estimate his emergence time, but Siggerson cut his speed to lowest pulse point, holding the ship
in place even though the panic in him kept urging him to shoot outside to freedom.
He waited until he should have had time to be clear, and watched the frigates maneuver tightly on his tactical screen. He waited ten seconds longer, until the tension inside him was wound so taut he felt he must explode.
Then he switched on the three powerful holograph projectors that had been fitted on the Sabre for her last mission. He aimed the image of the Sabre past the frigates, knowing the ghostly shimmer would make her appear to be falling out of waver.
The frigates turned to pursue the ghost, and smiling to himself Siggerson eased the Sabre outside into the freedom of space. As soon as he was safely clear, he switched to the course long since plotted and laid in, and pushed her into time distort speed.
Not until they made the jump safely and scanners showed no signs of pursuit did Siggerson let himself sag into his seat. He found suddenly that his arms had no strength left. His hands were trembling, and he kept blinking in an effort to keep things in focus.
They had done it—done the impossible. But at what cost? And what would Kelly say, when they found him? Would he be pleased? Would he condemn them? Was this enough to atone for 41?
Siggerson did not want to face the answers. At last he pushed himself erect and headed for the teleport bay, to see what awaited him down there.
"Forget it!" said Kelly, rising to his feet so fast his chair scooted on the polished slate floor.
Across the room, the counselor also rose to her feet. Dismay registered on her face. "Commander—"
"I said to forget it."
Kelly strode from the office, and the door automatically slid shut behind him before the counselor could follow. By the time she stepped into the corridor, Kelly had reached the corner. He heard her call after him, but he didn't glance back.
That was it, he decided. No more sessions with the head peeler. He had enough to handle just being shut up in the Phlom Boshoi Detoxification Hospital. He didn't need Dr. Kufre worming her way into how he felt about his parents. They didn't have anything to do with why he was here, and he wasn't taking his shattered nerves home to exhibit to them. It would be like throwing his personal failure into their faces.
No, thanks. He would take his convalescence leave some­where else.
He took another turn and entered the glass corridor spanning the distance between the two separate buildings, between the
29
hospital proper and the research labs and offices. Three stories down, the garden beneath his feet swayed gently in the breeze. Bright splashes of crimson, yellow, and fuschia blooms stood out against the muted gray of the stone pavement and benches. The Minzanese sunshine overwhelmed the UV coating on the glass. Before he was halfway across Kelly was sweating, and the stuffy air was almost too hot to breathe.
Just short of the end of the glass corridor, he encountered a trim young man about ten years his junior. Kelly saw the distinctive black and silver uniform of Special Operations before he saw the man's face.
As they passed each other, the operative nodded politely to Kelly, who felt his throat lock up. Kelly looked quickly away in panic. He quickened his stride, his face burning, his eyes holes into which all the faces were falling. Forty paces distant, the panic attack faded, leaving him breathless and ashamed of his own irrationality. He glanced down at his hands, which were clenched into fists. Not fully cured. Would he ever whip this thing?
Kellys were never defeated. Kellys always won. Honor and Achievement were the household gods.
"Kellys don't fail," said the admiral when complimented on the scholastic awards earned by his eldest son Drew.
"Kellys have an extra gene marked Talent," said Elizabeth Kelly, smiling at the applause following her daughter Kevalyn's harp recital.
"My children don't hold back for anyone," said the admiral in response to a school administrator's complaint about exces­sive competitiveness.
But sometimes Kellys did fail. The admiral had died on a top secret mission, and only a classified few knew that a clone now took his place. Elizabeth Kelly abruptly retired from her position as Earth's Minister of Culture and refused to offer an explanation. For the last few months she'd been living in seclusion, claiming she wanted the time and the solitude to paint seascapes. Kevalyn might be an eminent geological research scientist, but she couldn't make a go of a relationship and her personal life was a mess.
And I've been screaming at imaginary spiders on the walls, thought Kelly grimly. If he didn't shake himself together soon, he would never get his command back. He wanted to smash his fist into the wall. Instead he kept walking through the hushed hallways, heading for the safety of his room.
Keeping his place in the StarHawks had taken on over­whelming importance. Since he wasn't allowed outside con­tacts, with family or his squad, there wasn't much to do around here but shake the junk out of his system and think. Kelly had discovered that he had very little in his life but his job: a scattered family, few friends beyond professional contacts, no wife, no children, no ambitions beyond the rigors of the life he'd chosen. Without the job, he hadn't much of an identity.
For a man who had always thought he knew himself clearly and well, the realization had been an unpleasant shock. He was as much dependent upon the Hawks as he had been on the drug tapo.
Addict. He shivered and walked into his room.
It was a pleasant, restful place. Everything, from the texture of upholstery on the chairs to the soft beige hues of carpet and walls, was designed to be soothing. He had a window which offered a panoramic view of Hunchi City, the opulent capital of Minza. Thin, spiralling towers of high-rise buildings, hanging gardens supported on costly anti-grav units, casinos, business and trading centers, and exquisite art museums attracted visitors from across the galaxy. Hunchi City never slept. At night, the lights glittered like stars cupped in the broad plain at the foot of the immense Tutala Mountains. He liked best to look out his window at night, missing space, imagining in the darkness that he was back in the void with only the thin walls to protect him, contained in his own environment, and travel­ing at velocities his ancestors could only imagine.
The gravity was too heavy here. The sun too hot. It was easy to give way to lethargy, and tempting to surrender to the peaceful confines of the hospital.
He was sick and tired of peace. He hated quiet. If he had to listen to another tape of soothing environmental sounds he would rip the speakers from the walls. He even resented the
column-shaped aquarium in one corner. It contained bright blue and crimson shoncs who scavenged busily among their aquatic plants, rippling their beautiful fins gracefully. They were prisoners too, not companions.
He had not read the book of meditations provided by the Tam-ne-Aung Society in every room.
He wanted to be out of here, doing something besides chase his own thoughts around and around. He was tired of having nothing to do, tired of doubting himself, tired of dealing with doctors. Work always helped him get over things, but this time they wouldn't let him go back to work. He wasn't ready, they kept saying. He needed more time.
Kicking a chair out of his way, Kelly flung himself onto the bed and clicked on the vid. He had a copy of Cassandra Caliban's .speech to the General Assembly, and he had played it about a hundred times in the past two weeks.
Now she filled the wall of his room, fully dimensional, breathtakingly beautiful. He could smell the elusive scent of her perfume when the cam zoomed in for a close up. This time he kept the sound off. He liked to just watch her, to study the firm bone structure of her face, the unusual slant of her eyes that marked her as Zoan, and the ripple of her auburn hair beneath the lights.
At night he left the picture off and just lay awake, listening to her voice. She spoke well in a modulated voice that carried clearly. He nearly had her speech memorized.
There hadn't been time during the rescue on Kenszana to gain her friendship. Right now, of course, he wasn't allowed to contact her, although she had sent him a message of thanks for saving her life.
Fraternizing with rescue victims was frowned on in profes­sional circles. It was considered bad form to capitalize on someone's gratitude. But as soon as he got out of here, he meant to call her.
The door to his room opened. Kelly didn't glance that way. He was past being friendly to the nurses and orderlies. The aroma of food touched his nostrils. He sighed impatiently. Lack of appetite continued to be a problem.
"Just leave the tray, please," he said without looking at the nurse. "Thank you."
"Aren't you going to say hello?"
The voice was a deep but feminine contralto. The tone was brisk. Hairs stood up on the back of his neck, and he sat up with pleasure and surprise.
"Beaulieu!" he said, turning to her. He fumbled with the controls and clicked off the vid. "What a surprise. I didn't know I could have visitors now. Are you—"
She put a hand to her lips to silence him and gestured for him to turn the vid back on. He did so slowly, frowning, and this time he set the volume loud enough to cover their voices.
"I've come," said Beaulieu softly, "to get you out of here."
She put down the food tray she was holding and shrugged out of the nurse's smock she wore over her own civilian clothes. Her dark skin glowed against the gold silk, and she wore jewelry of beaten copper that suited her. He was immensely glad to see her, and she had just said the magic words.
He stood up without hesitation. "I'm ready."
She smiled. "I see that. But we can't just stroll out of here in broad daylight. Have you reconnoitered the hospital? Do you know its layout?"
Kelly's eagerness cooled off a fraction, but he remained intrigued. "Just what are you up to, Doctor? I'm bored out of my skull in this place, but breaking out seems a little drastic."
"Look, Kelly, there's a lf>t to explain and a lot to tell you. I can't do it all now. Things got out of hand at Station 4. Internal Affairs has started an investigation of the Kenszana mission—"
"No way!" said Kelly angrily.
Beaulieu made shushing motions, and he lowered his voice.
"That's ridiculous," he said. "There is no justification for an IA investigation. I explained everything to—"
"We all did," she interrupted wearily. "We've been de­briefed, scanned, truth verified, examined, and questioned over and over until we're buggy. IA is the most paranoid, suspicious outfit I've ever come across. And as for that twisted excuse for a director they've got—"
"What was the verdict on 41?" asked Kelly.
Beaulieu wouldn't meet his eyes. "The official charge stands at desertion. Unofficial orders are to shoot to kill."
Kelly flinched. "What?"
"Pretty unbelievable, isn't it?" she said bitterly. "Seems we have a little xenophobia cropping up in Director Kranst's personality."
"Kranst! Aron Kranst?"
"The same."
"But he's head of Covert—"
"Not anymore."
Kelly frowned and began to pace about his room. He knew Kranst by reputation mostly, had bumped into him a few times at boring receptions. The man was rumored to be prime spook material—paranoid, exacting, obsessive, and tending to focus on the smallest details. If he was training his IA agents in the same way he used to run Covert, then God help 41.
Kelly looked up. "Where is 41?"
She shrugged. "We have a few leads. Phila's been tapping into data files, but that's something to go into later. Right now we have to get you out of this place."
"Wait a minute. Not so fast," said Kelly, worried. "Phila's been tapping into whose files?"
"Guess."
His head felt too light. Overwhelmed, Kelly sat down on the end of his bed. The penalties for what Phila had risked ... He frowned at Beaulieu as a terrible suspicion came to him. "And the others?"
"What do you expect?" said Beaulieu. "Are we supposed to sit around on our duffs, hoping IA doesn't decide to scalp all of us, and let them kill 41? The best chance he's got right now is to be brought in for court-martial, and you know as well as I do just what his chances are at a trail. One sullen look from those yellow eyes, and he'd have them all convinced he was guilty. Then it's mind wipe, or—"
"I know." Kelly rubbed his face, trying not to think about it. The unfairness of this kept rising up inside him like a hammerblow. "What's West doing about this? Why isn't he—"
"West is on leave," said Beaulieu. "Now are you going to stop asking questions and do something about getting out of here? Or is the squad going to have to go rescue 41 without you?"
Kelly stood up without a word and walked into the small head. Stepping into the shower cubicle, he put his toes into the decorative niches carved on one side and climbed within reach of the ceiling, where a recessed panel marked an access point into the ductwork. He shoved the panel open and climbed down.
Beaulieu stood watching him from the doorway. She smiled. "Where does it go?"
"I have no idea." He brushed past her and returned to his room. "Someone will be by to check on me in about ten minutes. I have the option of skipping my exercise session in the gym. After that, they'll leave me alone until the lights-out check tonight."
Beaulieu nodded. "I'll stay out of sight in here."
Ten minutes seemed forever. Kelly occupied himself ner­vously by tossing his food tray into the disposal chute. It flashed a warning that he had inserted incorrect materials, but Kelly only smiled grimly and let it engage. Let the bowl and cup be mangled and recycled. Maybe it would jam the larger system. Maybe tomorrow no one's disposal chute would work.
Then he realized that he was directing his anger childishly again. The chair he'd thrown through the window one night and his outburst this afternoon in the counselor's office were more of the same. Being destructive was not the correct way to channel his frustration at how slowly his recovery was pro­gressing. But it was too late now to rescue the food tray.
He switched off the recording of Cassandra's speech, feeling slightly self-conscious about it now that Beaulieu was here, and replaced it with a meditation exercise. A dozen Othians, fluttering and transparent, were moving back and forth in some kind of calm, almost stately dance. The focus was soft, blurring them at the edges. The music was tranquil. A voice gave gentle instructions.
Ignoring it, Kelly paced back and forth, his mind crowded
with an endless stream of questions that he wanted to ask Beaulieu. The discreet chime at his door brought him up short. He flung himself in a chair and spoke permission to enter.
It was Brujhot, a brawny martial arts instructor with scarlet hair lassies dangling in front of his ears and a short gym tunic on. "Kelly," he said, stepping into the room. "Counselor upset by today's behavior. Recommends you work off aggression."
"No, thanks," said Kelly calmly, as though his heart wasn't thumping with excitement.
"Usually helps."
"Yes, I know." Kelly gestured at the vid. "But then I get mad again. I thought I'd try a different method this time."
Brujhot looked at the vid with approval on his broad face. "Meditation excellent. Need explanations?"
"No, I can handle it. We'll work out tomorrow and you can show me that throw you do."
Brujhot grinned. "Ah, secrets remain mine. Otherwise, instruction is over. Until tomorrow at this time."
He made the Minzanese gesture of polite farewell. Kelly returned it. As soon as the door slid shut behind Brujhot, Kelly shot from his chair. The doors could not be locked, which was a pity, but this place usually stuck to its routines. He also expected Brujhot to make a report to the counselor and his physician that would reassure them not to come by.
Inside the head, Beaulieu looked as impatient as he felt. "Finally," she said. "Who goes first?"
"I will," said Kelly. "Stand by to give me a boost, then I'll haul you up."
"Do you know your way around? Is there an exit to this maze besides another patient's head? It could be embarrassing to interrupt someone's shower."
Kelly laughed. "We'll just have to find out. Come on!"
In the end, it was almost too easy. The ducts were small, dark, dusty, and cold with conditioned air, but by sticking to the large central artery and avoiding the smaller branch ducts, Kelly soon found himself looking through a grille in what had to be the generator plant. Everything was humming smoothly
on full automation in the usual excellence of Minzanese engineering. Not an attendant in sight.
Kelly rammed his shoulder to the grille and bent it open. He scooted through and jumped lightly to the floor about a meter below. Beaulieu followed. Together they looked around.
At the far end of the rectangular room, a window overlook­ing a dusty service dock outside showed them they were on the fourth floor. Too far to jump.
"Now if we can just find an exit," said Beaulieu.
Kelly opened the door and peered cautiously out. He pulled himself back inside and grinned. "The stairs are right here. Let's go."
She followed him out, waiting while he looked up and down the corridor to make sure no one was coming.
"Too easy," said Kelly, stepping out onto the stair landing. "They get some pretty strange junk-heads in here. I'm sur­prised security isn't tighter."
Beaulieu's answer was lost in a shrill whoop-whoop-whoop of noise. For an instant Kelly froze. He glanced around wildly to see what had set off the alarm, and found the sensors aimed at the door.
"We did something wrong," said Beaulieu, her eyes wide. "It didn't go off until the door shut after me. Some locking code or palm print—"
"Never mind," said Kelly, not wanting to go into an analysis of the mistake. He started down the stairs, but before he was even halfway down to the next landing he heard a muffled thud somewhere below him.
"What is that?" said Beaulieu at his back.
He shook his head, every nerve taut as he listened. Another thud, heavy and final, still below them but closer. He backed up a step, crowding into her.
"Kelly?"
"They're security walls, massive steel plates sliding down over each landing door to isolate each floor." He whirled around and started running up the stairs past her. "Come on!" We don't want to get bottled in."
"But, Kelly, we can't go up! We—"
"No choice." Another thud right below them announced that the third floor had been sealed off. "Hurry!"
They cleared the fourth landing just as the seal started coming down. In the distance along the corridor, Kelly heard the sound of running feet. A burst of panic cracked his mind, but he held himself together. Keep thinking. Keep moving.
He ran up the next flight, using the railing and taking the steps two at a time. The seal brushed his shoulders as he ducked through. He had to crouch, reach back, and drag Beaulieu under before it separated them.
"Keep close," he said, panting.
Breathless, she nodded.
Side by side, they ran up the next flight of stairs. It had to be the last one. Kelly was praying for roof access, praying for more speed, and thanking all he believed in that the seals were on a progressive circuit and hadn't come down all at the same time.
The siren was shrill, louder than his ears could handle. It screamed inside his head until his skull was ringing with it. Again he had to choke panic and not let the siren distract him.
Two more steps. One more step. A door with a window set into the top half. Sky and sunshine beyond.
Behind them a seal came down with a thud that shook the staircase. Beaulieu was panting audibly. Kelly's heart felt like it would burst his chest. He saw a seal start to slide down over the door and threw himself forward.
'Wo!" he shouted just as his shoulder slammed into the door. Its solidity bounced him off, but his fingers were already jabbing at the electronic latch. The door slid open slowly, oh, so slowly despite his efforts to shove it faster. And all the while the seal was lowering—halfway down now. In another half meter it would fall—thud—to the floor.
Kelly scrambled under on his hands and knees, feeling his shoulder blades graze the bottom edge of the seal. He ducked and rolled desperately, palms and elbows skidding enough to leave skin behind. Outside, the heat and humidity smothered him as though a wet blanket had been dropped over his face.
Beaulieu was coming right behind him, but not fast enough.
He grabbed her arm and yanked hard. Beaulieu scrambled desperately, snorting with the effort. Her hand gripped his like death.
The seal thudded down, but she was clear. Kelly dropped her hand, and she let herself lie flat on the concrete. He sagged to his knees beside her, gulping for breath and feeling hot whispers of craving go through him.
Addict.
He jerked himself to his feet and reached down a hand to her. "Come on," he said, still trying to catch his breath. "They'll be searching up here in a few minutes."
Beaulieu climbed to her feet. In her eyes was a lingering shadow of the fear she'd just experienced and a bright burst of exhilaration. She smiled and wiped her face. "That old magic," she said.
He wanted to laugh, and suddenly he felt better than he had in a long time. Together they jogged across the flat expanse of roof, searching for a way down.
"What we need is a teleport," said Kelly as they squinted against the sunshine at the long expanse of roof still stretching out before them.
"Or wings," said Beaulieu.
He heard sounds then and flattened himself against a ventilation stack. Beaulieu crouched beside him. They lis­tened, and Kelly determined that four men were walking around the area closest to the stairwell.
"Can't see them," said a voice in Minzanese. The hot wind whipped sound in and out through his words. "Is it necessary to go across the entire roof?"
Kelly couldn't hear the answer, but footsteps started their way. Kelly grimaced in annoyance and glanced at Beaulieu. White was ringing her eyes again, but she met his gaze steadily enough. Kelly knew nothing would happen to him if they were caught, but she would be in serious trouble. And there was Phila on Station 4, taking terrible risks by breaking into classified material. Now he wondered about Caesar and Siggerson. They had probably stolen the Sabre or something equally crazy.
Beaulieu touched his elbow, and he nearly jumped into the open. "We can sneak around behind them and go back down the stairwell," she whispered.
He nodded. "Risky."
"What isn't?"
True. But since right now he could hear only two sets of footsteps, he figured the others had remained near the door.
He looked around, although the irregular rows of ventilation stacks interfered with his line of vision. The stacks were about shoulder-high and spaced approximately four meters apart. They filled the central area of the roof. Because there were so many of them, maybe they weren't for ventilation purposes, but Kelly had never pretended to understand Minzanese architecture. All he knew was he and Beaulieu couldn't play hide and seek around these stacks forever, especially when they were outnumbered. Then he thought of the glass corridor spanning the two buildings of the complex.
Gesturing to Beaulieu, he eased around the stack, keeping a wary eye on the approaching orderly, and ran diagonally to the next stack. Beaulieu judged her moment and followed. Dodg­ing, running cat soft in his hospital slippers, Kelly worked his way around the nearest orderly until he was behind the man. He glanced at Beaulieu and made a chopping gesture at his throat. She nodded grimly and stopped playing his shadow to go after the other orderly.
Neither of the orderlies was Brujhot. Glad of that, for he liked the man, Kelly sprang at his target and clipped him on the neck at a vulnerable Minzanese nerve spot. The orderly crumpled without a sound. Kelly stepped over him and ran along the edge of the roof until he stood above the glass tunnel.
Three stories below him, its sleek polarized top and sides reflected the sunshine with mirror brightness. Squinting, Kelly knelt and looked for maintenance rungs, gutters, anything to climb down. About a meter down from the top edge ran a crenellation. Below it was a ledge running below a series of windows. Once Kelly would have swung himself over without a second thought. Now he hesitated.
A shout told him he'd been seen. He turned and saw two
figures approaching with Beaulieu wedged between them. They were holding her arms pinned to her side in the elbow lock used on violent junk-heads. One of the two men was Brujhot, and he was frowning severely. The breeze toyed with his hair tassles.
"Bad, Kelly," he said sternly in Glish. "Severe infraction of rules."
"Let her go," said Kelly.
"Unauthorized visitor. Perhaps supplier."
Fury burned in Kelly's face. He rose up on his toes, his fists clenched. "Dr. Beaulieu is not a drug supplier," he said icily. "She is a ranking officer in the Special Operations branch of the Alliance Intelligence Agency. Release her."
Brujhot glanced at his companion, then walked on ahead to meet Kelly alone. Beaulieu made one brief, abortive effort to struggle, then gasped sharply and grew still in her captor's hold.
"Watch it," said Kelly sharply.
Brujhot was still advancing, his short square body moving with an athlete's ease. Kelly had grappled with him enough to know that he knew how to hold his center of gravity low. As a result he was almost impossible to flip off balance. Brujhot knew a lot of devious holds, and all the pressure points that could make black dots swim in front of your eyes. In addition to those advantages, he was a native and used to the high gravity that made Kelly perpetually tired.
For a moment Kelly wondered if the fight was worth it. Then he remembered the look on 41's face before the mercenaries led him away into the jungle of Kenszana. Kelly set himself in defense posture.
The Minzanese gave no warning. He moved incredibly fast, spreading his arms and bulking up. It was all Kelly could do to stand his ground and not give way to the rush. At the last moment he ducked his shoulder and stepped into Brujhot's attack. It was the correct defensive maneuver, executed well. The only trouble was that Brujhot was only feinting. Just as Kelly put himself off balance, Brujhot changed directions and
whirled at Kelly from the left side. His forearm, bulging with muscle, caught Kelly in the short ribs.
Half the breath driven from his lungs and feeling as though he'd been sfruck with a club, Kelly staggered and barely managed to keep his feet. He forced himself to turn to meet Brujhot's next move, but Brujhot was already leaping to Kelly's right in another whirl that changed direction halfway through.
Wham—the blow caught Kelly in the same place as the first, this time delivered by Brujhot's foot. Wheezing painfully, Kelly grabbed Brujhot's foot and twisted it in a down and dirty way 41 had taught him.
Surprised widened Brujhot's eyes for a split second, then he kicked free and boxed in two more swift blows. Kelly staggered back, fighting not to go down. Already the gravity and humidity were defeating him. He gulped for air and stopped retreating.
Brujhot studied him a moment, then rushed at him again. Kelly dodged and found himself lettering unexpectedly on the edge of the roof.
"Kelly!" screamed Beaulieu.
Brujhot's hand shot out and gripped Kelly's arm, dragging him to safety. "Over now," he said gently. "Come inside."
Kelly looked into Brujhot's kind, concerned eyes and let himself sag. Brujhot's arm went across his shoulders in support rather than restraint.
It was just what Kelly wanted. He clipped Brujhot on the neck, and the man crumpled. Beaulieu was struggling with her man. Kelly waded over to help. Beaulieu pulled a flat capsule from beneath her bracelet and snapped it open in the orderly's face. He gasped and crumpled.
She stood looking down at her erstwhile captor and rubbed her wrists. "Thanks. For a moment there I thought you were going to fall off the building."
"Yeah." Kelly gingerly touched his side. "What kind of gas is that?"
"You don't want to know." She tossed the broken capsule away. "Now what?"
"They won't be out long. If we're going to climb down the building, we'd better hurry."
She stared. "Are you serious?"
"Yeah." Wishing he weren't, he led her over to the edge of the roof. "A few minutes ago this didn't look so hard."
She looked at the narrow crenellation and the ledge lower down. "You realize that the people in those offices across the way can see us clearly. We'll do all this heroic free climbing and they'll still be waiting for us at the bottom."
Kelly grinned and shook his head. "We're going across the glass tunnel into the other building. You notice it isn't sealed the way this one is. Different security system."
"Lead the way," she said.
Once he lowered himself over the edge and started, he found the climb less difficult than it looked initially. The ledge was wide enough to hold his entire foot. He inched his way along it rapidly until he came to a gutter connection. About eighteen centimeters wide, it looked strong enough to support his weight.
Cautiously he slid himself onto it, and crouching down until his knees were under his chin, he crept down its gentle slope until it leveled off at the next story. Then it was a complicated, scary matter of swinging himself onto the next crenellation with nothing substantial to hold onto. For a moment he felt like he was standing in mid-air, with nothing supporting him at all, then he was hugging the wall, his face pressed against the stone, and his toes firmly dug in.
When his heart quit thudding, he forced himself to bend his knees carefully, carefully, until he could grasp the crenellation. Then he slid one foot and then the other off and stood on the next ledge.
After that, it was just a matter of repeating the process until he reached the top of the glass corridor. It was more of an elliptical shape than perfectly round, and broad enough to make walking across it easy. He strode out along it as fast as possible, Beaulieu following ashen-faced, and ignored the shouts from below and the people in the corridor staring open-mouthed up at them.
Dr. Kufre's office window was set squarely over the tunnel. Kelly reached it and found himself staring into the astonished face of his counselor.
"Open it," he said.
She did as he asked. Kelly climbed inside, walking carefully over her immaculate desk and jumping to the floor. Behind him Beaulieu crept over the sash like an old woman. When she stood at last on the floor, she looked around her as though she never expected to see solid ground again.
"Dr. Kufre, this is Dr. Beaulieu," said Kelly politely.
The two women stared at each other, one disheveled, the other poised. Both had gazes like chipped flint. Then Dr. Kufre seemed to recover herself and glanced at her desk comm.
"No," said Kelly.
He picked up a small exquisite sculpture which adorned Kufre's desk and smashed the comm.
"You didn't have to do that," said Kufre.
Kelly looked into her calm eyes, aware that the clinical part of her brain was still studying and analyzing him. "Yes," he said quietly, "I did. You aren't going to help the orderlies catch me."
"They know you're in this building. They'll be coming."
Kelly headed for the door. "Not soon enough."
"Kelly," she said.
He paused and glanced back.
"Why?" she asked with an air of choosing her words carefully. Beaulieu's slight smile seemed to annoy her, but she kept her gaze on Kelly. "This is a very dramatic gesture. You're scheduled for release in two weeks. Why not wait and finish your treatment?"
Kelly thought about 41, who might be already dead. But if he was still alive, he needed help now. Two weeks might be too late, but Kelly didn't intend to tell this head peeler any of that.
Instead he grinned. "This is more fun. Goodbye."
Seven minutes later, he and Beaulieu were out of the building and heading across the skimmer lot in the anonymity of stolen lab coats.
Beaulieu released a sigh of obvious relief. "Days like this
make me remember my age. If I even let myself think about
that climb down, I'll start screaming."
Kelly smiled. "When do we meet the Sabre?"
"In forty-two hours. If they managed to get away." Beaulieu
sent Kelly a strained glance. "Maybe you don't want to join a
renegade squad which is guilty of breaking at least forty laws.
Just because 41 is a wanted man didn't mean any of us had to
put ourselves in the same position. I guess we're hopeless." "You're all wonderful," said Kelly warmly. "And if you
think I'm going to stay behind, you can go back in there and
take my place."
It was not forty-two hours but instead nearly sixty until Kelly and Beaulieu were brought aboard the Sabre. By then, Beau-lieu had filled Kelly in on the complete details of what had been happening in his absence.
As Kelly stepped off the teleport platform, Ouoji bounded to meet him and jumped into his arms. She butted his chin with her round head, chittering softly, and patted his cheek with her paw.
"Hello, Ouoji," he said. Although she was far from being a pet, he could not resist stroking her soft fur.
She jumped from his arms to Siggerson's shoulder and crouched there to watch all of them with her tail twitching gently.
Siggerson, Caesar, and Phila were lined up in a welcoming party. All were smiling as they greeted him, but he saw the strain in their eyes, and when they told him of their adventures in escaping Station 4 he was alarmed by the size of the risks they had taken. The fact that Caesar and Phila hadn't been killed via a teleport scramble was just short of a miracle.
He looked them over, keeping his relief from his face, and took refuge from his emotions by expressing anger.
47
"What the hell do you think you've been doing?" he said. "Violating security files, misappropriation of equipment, steal­ing a starship, and shooting up the hangar bay in a reckless disregard for lives and safety. Not to mention flagrant disobe­dience of orders, going AWOL, and—"
"—kidnapping an officer," interjected Beaulieu.
"What?" said Kelly, momentarily thrown off track. "Who?"
Caesar pointed at him, his green eyes dancing. "You."
Kelly swung around to glare at Beaulieu. "The hell you did."
"The hell I didn't," she retorted calmly. "I had a weapon trained on you in full sight of hospital personnel. At no time were you acting independently."
"Except when I fought Brujhot."
"Self-defense," she said. "He attacked you first."
Kelly saw what they were doing and shook his head. "No," he said. "No, people. It doesn't work that way."
"Sure it does, boss," said Caesar. "Just because we've broken half the laws on record and become pirates doesn't mean you have to. We just thought we'd give you the chance to join in if you wanted to."
"I suppose you think I'm going to let you go after 41 without me," said Kelly hotly.
They grinned, exchanging glances.
"That's what we thought, Commander," said Phila.
He sighed. It was impossible to stay angry at them, but even so, what they had done was going to have serious conse­quences.
"Why didn't you contact me?" he said. "I have enough pull with West—"
"West is gone," said Caesar sharply.
"On vacation," said Beaulieu. "I told you that."
"Still," said Kelly. "Even Jedderson would listen—"
"Where were you then?" said Caesar. "We sent you dozens of messages and got nowhere."
"I got no messages."
Again they exchanged glances.
"See?" said Phila to the others. "I told you they had him isolated."
Caesar shrugged. "We were already on suspension— considered guilty until proven innocent. Internal Affairs is out to make their new director look good by going on witch hunts through every department. So when we came back from Kenszana with one operative deserted, the medic on life support with a bullet in her head, and our commander quirking through acute withdrawal hallucinations, they figured some­thing weird was going on."
Kelly glanced at Beaulieu through this, but she looked perfectly healthy now. She caught his glance and said dryly, "Operative Samms exaggerates."
"Plus, we saved the Zoan ambassador and one member of her staff, but lost three other civilians. Not good statistics, overall."
"If I hadn't reported 41's desertion while we were still in mission," said Siggerson bitterly, "we could have smoothed that over in our final debriefing. But they wouldn't believe what we told them. I owe 41."
"He saved my life," said Phila. "I was down in the mud with a madwoman trying to gouge out my eyes with a knife, and he came out of nowhere."
"He saved me too," said Caesar, still looking at Kelly. "And he saved you for certain. We would have never left Kenszana alive if not for him. I figure that's worth breaking the law and going pirate, don't you?"
Kelly stood there a moment, watching them watch him. They were tough, good, and smart, but they needed a com­mander. And he needed them. Already he felt stronger and more sure of himself. Work had always been the best therapy for him.
"Yes," he said. "I figure we have plenty of reasons for going pirate. Legal measures are too slow. Where does the trail lead us? How fast can we get there?"
Siggerson headed for the door. "I'll put us on course now."
As Siggerson left, Caesar frowned at Kelly. "You ain't gonna like this."
"Where?" said Kelly. "Stop treating me like I'm made out of glass."
"We have to go back to Methanus."
A cold chill went through Kelly. It made sense, of course. If he'd been thinking straight, he'd have already guessed that. But just the same, Methanus had to be the last place he ever wanted to return to. Methanus had been where he got hooked on this damned stuff that kept twisting inside him like a demon he could never escape. Methanus was a place where it might happen again.
His mouth went dry. He had to swallow twice in order to make his voice work.
"Then," he said hollowly, trying not to reveal his dread, "we have to go back."
"Do you think you can, Kelly?" asked Beaulieu in her most clinical voice.
He didn't meet her eyes. "Sure. Let's get to work."
They were just a few hours short of reaching Methanus when Kelly called a final briefing in the lounge. Normally this close to a destination Siggerson would be glued to his master station on the bridge, deaf to everything but his own specific job. This time, however, he let the automateds continue to run the ship and was one of the first to arrive.
Catching Kelly's look of surprise, he frowned and seemed about to speak, then didn't. He started to shoo Ouoji from a chair, but she raised her head and spat a warning.
Siggerson backed off. "What's with you?"
Ouoji slitted her eyes and put her chin flat on her paws.
"I've never seen her do that before," said Kelly, equally astonished. "Have you?"
"No. Maybe something's wrong with her. She hasn't been acting quite herself in several weeks. She sure didn't like it while we were banned off the ship."
Beaulieu walked in and blinked at the sight of Siggerson. "This is a surprise, Olaf. What are—"
"Doctor, I think you should examine Ouoji," said Sigger­son. "She's not acting right."
Beaulieu frowned. "No offense to Ouoji, but I'm not a vet. That happens to be twelve years of specialty training, if you include the exotic species, and it's an entirely different branch of science than mine. What's peculiar about her?"
Holding back a smile, Kelly thought it time to intervene. "She didn't want to give Siggerson her chair."
"She spat at me," said Siggerson, sounding as though his best friend had turned on him. "She's never done that before."
"Sounds justified to me," said Beaulieu, glancing at Kelly and rolling her eyes. "Why should she move from where's she's comfortable just so you can have a central seat? There're plenty of chairs."
"No, you don't understand. She's been—"
"Yo," said Caesar in general greeting, coming in the door. He stopped and staggered in mock astonishment at the sight of Siggerson. "Why, Siggie! What are you doing here? Lose your way?"
Annoyance kindled in Siggerson's face. He started to retort, but Phila came in carrying the data projector.
"Hi, Siggerson," she said cheerfully. "You going to join us this time?"
"Is my presence here that strange?" said Siggerson wrath-fully. "Do I have to ask formal permission to be included in a squad briefing? Do I have to—"
"Contain the flame, Siggie," said Caesar shortly. "You informed us right from the start that you had better things to do than sit in on boring strategy meetings. All you wanted to know were your direct orders. So what's the big difference now? You decide that maybe you goofed royally when you filed that desertion report on 41 and started this whole investigative mess? You feeling a little bit sorry for that? You here trying to make up and be a good little birdie in the nest with the rest of us now?"
Siggerson's freckled face turned scarlet. "I made a mistake, and I admit it freely. But I owe my apology to 41, not to you. So just back off, Samms, and stop throwing it in my face."
"Back off? Yo, I'll back off when I see some honest team spirit from you," said Caesar.
"You didn't have to twist my arm to get me to participate in this," said Siggerson hotly. "I got us the ship. I got us away from Station 4. You couldn't have done that without me. As for team spirit, I could have sat in on every one of your briefings since I joined Special Operations and it wouldn't have done me much good. You lay plans and then change them in mid-stride. If I'd known exactly what was going on at Kenszana, I wouldn't have been forced to make independent decisions. If I'd been kept informed, if I'd had the slightest inkling that 41 wasn't really a deserter, then I wouldn't have filed that damned report!"
"If you'd taken the time to get to know 41 a little better," said Phila quietly, "you wouldn't have been so hasty."
It was almost as though they were circling Siggerson, choosing the best place to peck him. From the corner of his eye, Kelly saw Beaulieu glancing at him as though expecting him to put a stop to this, but he made no move to intervene. It was obvious these feelings had been festering in everyone for weeks; the squad had to work them out.
"And how well do you know him?" Siggerson was retorting.
"Oh, come on," said Caesar. "We've been under fire together. We've saved each other's butts enough to know what's what. But you're the original icicle, locked away on the bridge and tied into the ship's computer. Your best friend is Ouoji, and she can't even talk to you."
Silence fell between them. A tense, angry silence that finally was broken by Siggerson drawing himself erect.
"There's no point in wasting our time going on and on with this argument," he said coldly. "If I am not wanted in here, I shall return to the bridge. I came to make amends, but that's impossible—"
"Siggerson," said Kelly.
"No, Commander," said Siggerson. "You can order me to stay here, but that doesn't change the fact that I don't fit in. I never will."
"You never cared about it before," said Phila, looking at him as though she realized they had gone too far.
Siggerson headed for the door.
Kelly let him get almost there, then said, "Please don't go, Mr. Siggerson. I think you've acted commendably. I, for one, appreciate your concern for 41. As your commander I'm glad to see you taking more interest in the ground mission aspect of our job. You never wanted to be in the Hawks in the first place. I shanghaied you into the service, and have bullied and bribed you alternatively into staying. But I'd like to say that you've worked hard to become an indispensible part of this squad. I don't think emotion should carry us past the facts of how good each of us are at our respective jobs and how well we all work together as a team."
Siggerson stood blinking at Kelly and didn't speak. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking from his expression, but he went on standing there and didn't leave.
Phila stepped forward. "I'm sorry, Siggerson. I've never learned how to be tactful. Things just come blurting out."
Siggerson nodded, accepting the apology, and glanced at Caesar. Nothing. Beneath his thatch of red hair, Caesar's face was white and set with stubbornness.
Annoyance rose in Kelly, but there would be time enough to talk to Caesar later. Right now they had more important things to do. Forcing the issue further wouldn't smooth it over.
"All right," he said. "We're getting closer to Methanus every minute. Phila, you have the information. Why don't we get started?"
"Yes, sir."
She got busy setting up her data projector and dimming the lights. The others took seats in silence.
"This," she said, "is Harva Opie."
A face flashed upon the screen and froze there. It was a seamed, weathered visage, human—or near enough—with a mouth twisted by deceit and one sighted eye that glared with perpetual suspicion. The other eye was missing, its socket sealed over by smooth skin that looked incongruously young and elastic compared to the rest of his face. His features were the nondescript sort that defied description. He was shaved hairless to better accommodate an armor suit helmet.
"Doesn't look wired," said Caesar. "Is he?"
"Probably," replied Phila. "It's the big trend in mercenary forces now, and Opie's army is one of the largest for hire in the galaxy. He's been extremely successful in recent years. He's known for using the highest percentage of cyborgs, and to control them he must have some enhancers of his own."
"That missing eye," said Beaulieu. "It's the usual place for memory enhancers or powerful data links. Most people, however, have the eye replaced."
"His net worth is estimated at 800 million—"
"Impossible!" said Siggerson sharply. "No one outside the merchant consortiums and drug cartels makes that kind of money. Certainly not soldiers of fortune. I've come across a few in my time, and they're a scruffy lot. They spend their pay as fast as they get it."
"Who says he's not linked into the consortiums and cartels?" said Phila. "For years he's been investing in market funds and colony holding shares. Everything quiet and legal. Five years ago he moved in on two of his competitors in the mercenary business, wiped out the owners, and absorbed the armies and their arsenals into his own. Now he's got practically a monopoly on the business, especially anything large scale. He's also been running weapons off the black market to private buyers—major stuff, not the small deals. The files I raided mentioned something about civil war in the Salukan Empire and some tie-in to that, but I didn't collect past that point."
"This," said Beaulieu thoughtfully, "was the man who bought 41 out of slavery, trained him, gave him marketable skills, and served as his mentor."
"Yeah, so?" said Caesar. "He also taught 41 to be a miser. I don't think he's spent more than two credits of his pay since he joined the Hawks. Try getting him to stand a round of drinks at the bar."
"My point is," said Beaulieu, glaring at Caesar, "that we may go in and find ourselves dealing with a very confused rescue victim."
"Explain," said Kelly.
"The old term for it is the Stockholm Syndrome."
Kelly frowned. "You mean where hostages become sympa­thetic to their captors' cause?"
"That's it."
"But this isn't like that," said Phila.
"No, the parallels aren't exact. 41 is playing a lot of roles right now. One of them is the prodigal son. He broke with Opie, who had destined him for—"
"—successor," muttered Kelly.
"Yes. The crown prince who threw it all away. Now he's home again. Maybe Opie has forgiven him—"
"If that's true, those meres wouldn't have taken him off by force," said Phila indignantly.
"Maybe he's not a prisoner at all. Maybe he's enjoying being home," said Siggerson.
"A lot you know about it," snapped Caesar. "We were there. We saw what was happening."
"If Opie has forgiven him," said Beaulieu as though she hadn't been interrupted, "then he may be jeopardizing the current successor's spot, in which case he is in danger. If Opie hasn't forgiven him—"
"—he could be dead by now," said Kelly, voicing the worry that gnawed constantly at him.
"Possibly," said Beaulieu calmly, "but Opie's character profile indicates that he is able to subdue himself in favor of the larger picture. He is a long-term planner. He determines the right moment for a move, and waits for it. As long as 41 is useful to him, he'll keep him alive."
"Next," said Phila, and the projector flashed a new face onto the screen.
He was a giant, heavy of bone structure through the forehead and jaw, bull-necked, immense through the shoulders. The flage paint on his face clashed with the magnificent emerald glittering in his ear. His eyes were small and colored red. Unlike Harva Opie, who had shown a faint hint of humanity, there was nothing at all in this face but cruelty.
Kelly drew in a sharp breath, and beside him Beaulieu made a soft sound.
Caesar shot to the edge of his seat. "That's Redeye himself!
If we're going up against him this time, we'd better shoot first and say hello later. He's got snakes for brains."
"His name is Taft," said Phila. "This is the successor Beaulieu is talking about. He's Opie's number one borg. He goes out as mercenary captain and runs their field operations. Speaking personally, I endorse everything Caesar just said. This man is a psycho, borged to the max, and extremely dangerous. We may never reach as far as Harva Opie, but this man we'll definitely deal with."
"Notice his red eyes," said Beaulieu. "You two aren't exaggerating in saying he's psychotic. Long usage of tapo as an anti-rejectionant causes the eye color to change. It also affects certain areas in the brain, areas that control inhibitions, mood swings, erratic behavior changes. I won't go far enough to say that his profession indicates that he could also be a sociopath—"
"He is," said Caesar with such emphasis that Kelly glanced sharply at him. "He's everything that's whacko."
"Next," said Phila. Taft's face was replaced by a dome-shaped structure, fashioned of polished black metal and look­ing somehow ominous. "Harva Opie's villa on Methanus."
Caesar whistled. "It looks like a fortress."
"It is. The entry and exit specifications are tight, heavily secured. I've got a hard data copy for you to study." Phila handed a flimsy to Caesar. She hesitated, then handed one to Siggerson as well. "Perhaps you two can put your heads together on the best way to get in."
Caesar and Siggerson took the papers, fidgeted with them, glanced at each other, and said nothing.
"Opie has a training center somewhere, a place called Bonag. I haven't been able to turn up any references on a location. I don't know if it's a planet or a city. This is as far into the files as I got."
Kelly leaned forward. "You've done a fine job, Phila. How about 41's location? Was he definitely spotted here?"
"Yes, sir." She stood erect with her back to the screen, some of the projector light playing across her. "The investigation team staked out the villa and as many of Opie's businesses as
they could verify ownership. 41 was seen inside a nightclub. The stakeout team moved for an arrest without waiting for backup. The team was found in a back alley, dead. No further trace of 41. They lost the trail completely."
"So he could be anywhere," said Siggerson.
"Yes. That was two weeks ago."
Beaulieu stirred. "The deaths won't help 41's case."
Kelly rose to his feet. He wasn't going to worry about 41 's court-martial right now. There were more immediate problems, like how to locate the man at all.
"It's too bad," he said, "that you weren't able to get a transponder implanted in him."
Beaulieu snorted. "You might as well have tried to pull his teeth without anesthetic. We can't even calibrate a scanner onto his particular life signs since Methanus is crawling with all kinds of breeds, half-breeds, and duke's mixtures."
Phila snapped off the projector and frowned. "What's a duke's—"
"Never mind," said Kelly. "But aren't there certain signs which are unique to every individual? Brain waves, for example."
"Yes, of course. I could calibrate a scanner to search for his encephalographic pattern, but it would work only at close range. We still have to go down there and look for him."
Kelly nodded. It was no good hoping for an easy way out. He was going to have to face Methanus again. But this time he was going to beat it.
"Siggerson, how long until we make final approach?"
Siggerson checked his chron. "Two hours. I'll need to be on the bridge soon."
"You and Caesar get busy on those specs Phila gave you. Caesar, as soon as Siggerson has the computers running on the problem, get down to stores and start kitting us. We'll want small oxygen units, goggles, and weapons."
"Yo," said Caesar, nodding. "Armor too."
Kelly frowned and Phila said, "No—"
"Yes!" said Caesar angrily. "Nobody goes against borgs without it. That's suicide."
"He's right," said Kelly with a sigh. "Light armor. If we're on the streets we need to know the signals and customs a little more thoroughly than we did before."
"Simple," said Phila. "I have the data waiting on everyone's vid in their quarters, but basically left-hand signals are for drugs, both buying and selling. There are specific signals for each type. Left-arm signals are for sex. Right-hand gestures indicate you want the black market. Right-arm signals mean you want to be kidnapped."
"What?" said Beaulieu in astonishment.
"Kidnapped. You know, taken hostage for ransom?"
"Yes, yes, I know what the term means. But why would you want someone to kidnap you?"
Phila shrugged. "It's an old con game. The economic crash of eighty years back made a lot of rich people very tight. They closed up their legacies in tough trust funds. Most people who inherit wealth these days don't really get control of their principal, just an allowance. The trust guardians are skimming heavy profits, but most of the trusts can't be broken. So, to get your principal you go to a place like Methanus and get yourself kidnapped professionally. You dictate the amount of ransom, and when it's paid you give your nappers a percentage. Easy."
"And if they don't pay?" asked Beaulieu in a cynical voice.
Phila shrugged again. "It's a risk."
"That's appalling."
"Most things on Methanus are, Doctor," said Kelly. "Phila, we don't want to be messed with at all. How do we indicate that?"
"Don't bump into anyone, and you won't have trouble. The best way is to carry a drawn weapon in plain sight. Then the other pedestrians avoid you."
"Are we going to have to walk through the entire city?" asked Beaulieu.
"If we have to," said Kelly grimly. "That's what we came here for, isn't it?"
He glanced around at their faces and saw only determina­tion.
Then Caesar stepped forward. "How about you, boss? You
going to be able to cut and slice this? I mean, we did yank you right out of the hospital—"
"I'm fine," said Kelly shortly, cutting him off. "Phila, we need our translators to be able to decipher the mercenaries' code language."
"Merc-speak?" She nodded. "Already working on it. I'll have it ready by the time we establish orbit."
"Good work. Everyone, get your work done, then grab some rest. You'll need it."
They filed out, except for Caesar, who hesitated until he realized Beaulieu was also waiting for a private word with Kelly. Caesar grimaced and left.
Beaulieu stood by the door as though to keep Kelly from leaving until she'd had her say.
Kelly picked up a flimsy of the fortress blueprint which Phila had left behind and studied it. "Yes, Doctor?"
"When," said Beaulieu, "are you going to tell them that you're still hooked on tapo?"
Until then he'd had everything under control, but at her question heat flashed through him as though he'd been dipped in boiling oil. His fist crushed the flimsy into a wad. For a moment the whole room seemed to be rushing in at him, then he sucked in a breath and managed to hang on.
"What makes you think that?" he replied carefully.
"Oh, come on, Kelly! I'm a doctor. I'm not blind to the indications. Tapo is not a pleasure drug and it's not an easy kick. Because it's designed to be used under strict medical control, it causes specific nerve damage in order to create passageways for the artificial neural linkups. You don't undo that in a day, or sometimes even in a few weeks. For you, it's going even more slowly, isn't it?"
Kelly stared at the wall, conscious of the pulse ticking under his right eye, conscious of the fist that was still squeezing the paper wad too hard.
"Pressure, stress, especially of the kind that goes with leadership responsibilities, could trigger a relapse. Even the sight of someone junking up could do it. You aren't ready to go down to a place like Methanus."
It was like having his guts twisted on a stick. He tried to turn himself into stone, to give away nothing, but his lips were jerking and his eyes stung. It was absurd of him, but he had hoped she wouldn't notice. He'd hoped that if he kept his secret locked away tight, the worst wouldn't be able to happen. Now she'd broken the lock, and all the vulnerability he'd been repressing came rushing over him, threatening to swamp his self-confidence completely.
"Why then," he said at last when he thought he could control his voice, "did you break me out of detox?"
"Because they need you," she said.
He looked at her in startlement.
"Don't go into your modest act, Kelly. You were born a leader. I did it because I knew you'd want to be a part of this. I did it because I hoped you'd be ready for it. You aren't. That's difficult for me to say. I considered not forcing this matter into the open, but I think it's only fair for you to tell them about your condition."
"No!"
"Yes. Kelly, you've never kept anything from them. That's your rule, your code of honor. That's the type of fair play you live by. Don't let a misplaced sense of shame change that. You have nothing to be ashamed of with this."
He shook his head. "My set of personal demons is not the issue. The squad shouldn't be told because of morale reasons."
"Nonsense—"
"No, Doctor. Listen to me. You just called me a leader. Well, I know about managing people. They can't follow me if they're trying to protect me. They can't do their jobs if they're worried about me cracking."
"If you go down there and fall apart, they'll be in big trouble."
She was right. He knew it and she knew it. But he was right as well. She had to understand that. "I'm not going to fall apart," he said with determination. "I can't be an armchair commander. And I'm not going down there to fail. Before, we were at a disadvantage. We had no means of protection and we
had to deliberately keep ourselves vulnerable for our cover. This time it's different. Can you understand that?"
She studied him a moment. "I understand it. I just have to wonder if you're not biting off more than you can chew. It seems to be a Kelly trait."
"I don't want you to tell the squad about this," said Kelly. "Will you give me your word to keep this between us?"
"No."
"Dammit, Doctor!"
"Dammit, Kelly!"
They glared at each other, but it was Beaulieu who backed down first.
"All right," she said. "I've given you my professional opinion. If you choose not to take my advice, mat decision is yours. I think the others are tougher than you're allowing them to be. I think you're bearing more responsibility than you have to. I think you've got a serious complex about admitting weaknesses. I think you've working yourself through a mas­sive, unnecessary guilt trip over what you see as a personal failure. Well, you're not God, Kelly. You need to learn that sooner or later."
"Thank you for the analysis, Doctor," he said icily. "Is that all you have to say?"
"I think they should be told. I think you should be the one to tell them. But if you refuse, then I'll abide by that decision—"
"Good!"
"—unless you start to crack. Then we're pulling out, or at least we're pulling you out."
"No!"
"That's the deal, Kelly. We aren't on an official mission here, remember? There's no one backing up your authority except what we give you. You can accept my terms, or I'll tell them right now you aren't fit enough to go down."
Furious, he looked into her eyes and saw only an implacable readiness to carry out her threat. It didn't matter that she had his own good at heart. She had just put another pressure on top of all the others. He couldn't help but resent that.
"Well?" she said.
"You expect me to lead this mission, knowing that at any moment if things don't go according to the way you think they should, you'll put on your skullcap and crossbones and declare a mutiny. That's supposed to reassure me? What about my morale, Doctor? Do you ever turn off that head-peeling habit of yours and think like a compassionate human being? I need support, Doctor. Right now, I happen to need a lot of it. I can't do my job if I'm constantly second-guessing myself."
Her expression changed, but he went on before she could speak. "I agree to your deal. I don't have much choice. But you might try dispensing some kindness occasionally."
Her eyes filled with consternation. She reached out. "Kelly, I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"
But the pity was worse than the criticism had been. He jerked away from her in anger. Before she could say anything else, he was out the door.
Methanus, the notorious black-market center of the galaxy, was a lumpy, misshapen chunk of rock with scanty atmo­sphere, rotten climate, and irregular day length. It lacked soil and water, so all provisions had to be imported. It had only one indigenous life form more advanced than bacteria—large, winged predators as transparent as glass which hypnotized their victims, then fed on them. By rights, Methanus offered nothing to attract settlement, yet its location between the most heavily populated centers of Alliance civilization and the sparse fringe worlds made it ideal as a trading center. From a barren but neutral meeting ground for pirates, Methanus City had grown into a thriving, sophisticated metropolis that catered to any whim, to any perversion imaginable.
Kelly and his squad materialized in a wide-open plaza so brightly lit it might as well have been day. Aircabs were landing and taking off from a small, central pad. Pedestrians and idlers thronged the space. Garish holo ads flashed, spun, and lunged at potential customers. At ground level drug shops and nightclubs circled the plaza, their doorways open behind shimmering force walls. Overhead, the pricier shops and glitzy
63
casinos enticed customers zipping around in airboots and anti-grav belts artfully hidden beneath their clothing. Tiny wind sails skimmed everywhere like fanciful butterflies, dart­ing and swooping in the fierce wind. Now and then a gale-strength gust overwhelmed the skill of the operator and slammed a wind sail into a building, where it crumpled and plummeted to the ground, applauded by the idlers who then fought to rob the corpse.
Snapped into body armor, shielded by a force belt, fed measured air through an unobstrusive nostril plug, and ren­dered impervious to the light gravity by the counterweights in his boots, Kelly gazed around, taking in the scene, before calling Siggerson.
"Kelly to Sabre," he said. "All down. Proceeding."
"Acknowledged," came Siggerson's voice over the comm. "Monitors are registering each of you clearly."
"Good. We'll check in every half hour. Kelly out."
Of the four of them, Beaulieu was the only one who had never been to Methanus before. She was staring around with an expression of mingled disgust and fascination.
"Everything I've heard about this place is true," she said.
Caesar snorted. "Just wait, Doc. You ain't seen half of it."
Kelly saw an emaciated youth veering unsteadily toward them. Kelly drew his bi-muzzle Maxell pistol, and the punk wheeled about in the opposite direction and left them alone. Letting out his breath, Kelly glanced at his squad.
"Exhibit pistols," he said. "If anyone confronts you, shoot them."
Caesar and Phila nodded. Beaulieu's eyes got wider. "In­credible," she said. "We're standing here in full assault gear, and no one's even noticed."
"I'm going shopping," said Caesar. Like Kelly, he kept glancing about warily, his senses stretched. He wasn't cracking jokes and he didn't look cocky. For once, Caesar was all business, and that told Kelly that Caesar was just as scared as he was. Caesar glanced at Phila. "Ready, toots?"
"I'm ready," said Phila. She gave Kelly and Beaulieu a thumbs up and smiled.
"We'll see you in an hour," said Kelly.
Caesar and Phila moved off, their pace slow and steady in their weighted boots.
Kelly glanced at Beaulieu and together they crossed the plaza. From overhead, a hunter came swooping down with a graceful furling of its transparent wings. Its jewel-like eyes flashed, reflecting the many colors of the holo ads. Kelly stopped, putting out a hand of caution to Beaulieu. Despite the fact that the hunter was more than forty meters away and hovering over a pair of drunk women who giggled at it, Kelly felt sweat break out beneath his armor. He remembered the hunter who had tricked him into looking straight into its eyes. He remembered the burst of colors and music inside his head, the sharp clutch of poisoned talons, the start of a nightmare that still haunted his life.
Beaulieu's hand clamped onto him, her force shield sparking in light friction against his. "Easy, Kelly," she said. "Take it easy."
Kelly came to himself with a start. He saw her look of concern and realized she thought he was tweaking already. Half-angrily he shook loose. "I'm fine," he said.
One of the women screamed, and Kelly's gaze jerked ahead to where the hunter was climbing into the sky with its victim struggling helplessly. Her friend stood spraddle-legged, gazing up in vacuous wonder.
"It really is survival of the fittest," murmured Beaulieu.
"That's right." Kelly narrowed his eyes and walked on. "Let's get 41 out of here."
They went to the club where 41 had been sported by the IA agent. A mercenary was lounging in the doorway with an ASK flame-repeating snub rifle cradled in his arm. Through the force wall protecting the club, Kelly could hear the irritating squeal of lojan jazz being played at a rapid tempo.
Kelly stepped up to the force wall and asked for admittance. The mercenary shifted the slo-stick he was sucking on to the other side of his mouth and touched a control inside the doorway. A scanner beam went over Kelly and Beaulieu, creating a shrill feedback loop as it bounced off their shields.
The mere smiled toothily and shrugged. "No scan, no entry."
Warned by his smile, Kelly glanced to their right just as a ragged creature of no definable gender bumped into Beaulieu. She tried clumsily to turn, but Kelly reached across her and shot the pickpocket point-blank.
As it went sprawling, a long, needle-thin shiv fell from its hand and clattered upon the pavement. A shiv that narrow was one of the few things that could pierce their shields.
"Thanks," said Beaulieu in a small voice. "I think."
Kelly turned back to the mercenary. Through the force wall he looked for signs of augmentation, but saw none; just the hard, hooded gaze and a face worn from having seen it all. Kelly shrugged off the small launcher from his shoulder, snapped it open and pumped in a soft round.
The mere's eyes widened and he swung his own weapon up. He couldn't fire it, however, because the force wall would deflect his shot back at him. But Kelly had ammo that could defuse a low-powered force wall like this. He fired coolly, creating a shrill whine of folding plasma and shorting circuits. Electricity flashed and crackled, then the wall shorted and fell.
The mere scrambled from the doorway where he'd been cringing for shelter, but before he could open fire Kelly jammed the end of his launcher into the man's belly.
"We'd like to come in and talk to the management," said Kelly.
The mere tipped up his weapon in surrender. "Sure," he said, using the difficult mere-speak that Kelly's translator deciphered. "But they ain't taking job applications today."
Kelly bared his teeth. "We aren't applying."
Swiftly he reversed the launcher and struck the mere unconscious with the butt. The mere slumped to the ground and Kelly and Beaulieu stepped over him.
She had her scanner going as they descended a flight of steps into the smoky gloom of the club. The place was full, and most of the patrons who weren't too drunk or strung out to notice were standing up, hands on their weapons. An augmented human followed by a battle-scarred Boxcan of bouncer size
came hurrying up to confront Kelly before he reached the bottom of the steps.
"Kelly," said Beaulieu in alarm. "They've got the force wall back up."
"Sure," said the human in fairly fluent Glish.
Kelly took a closer look at him and decided that maybe he wasn't human after all. It was a good job of cosmetic surgery.
"We keep a backup system for life's little accidents. You said you wanted to talk to the manager. So talk."
The two weren't carrying any obvious weapons, but Kelly had already spotted some fairly lethal devices hanging from the ceiling along with the surveillance cams.
Kelly kept his launcher aimed at the manager and tried not to think about the fact that they were now trapped inside here. He shot a quick glance at Beaulieu and the scanner.
She shook her head. "No sign of him."
It would have been too easy, yet disappointment curled through Kelly just the same.
His eyes went back to the manager. "I want to meet Harva Opie."
"Who's that?"
Kelly's fingers tightened on the trigger, creating a soft whine as the charge built toward overload. In seconds he would have to fire or ease off his grip. "You know who he is. By now your information net has probably identified me, so you know why I'm here and why I want to talk to your boss. Let's not waste time. I'd hate to have to shoot up your place."
Without losing his bland look of noncompliance, the man­ager made a quick signal. From the ceiling came twin lasers that flashed with deadly accuracy square into Kelly's and Beaulieu's force shields. With a scorching backlash that had Kelly gasping from severe shock, his shield failed.
The manager ducked out of the way and the Boxcan slammed into Kelly like a battering ram, knocking him into Beaulieu and bringing both of them down. Kelly rolled, delivering a dirty kick that connected solidly enough to wring a grunt from his assailant. Then a blow connected with his temple, and his eyes went nova. He heard Beaulieu shouting
and the sound of shots. For an instant he got things in focus and aimed his weapon at Beaulieu's assailant. A second blow crashed into his temple. He skidded on the edge of uncon­sciousness, fighting it all the way, and fell in.
Caesar walked into the gun shop and stopped, frankly stunned by the variety of wares displayed before him. It was like being in the arsenal on Station 4 all over again, only these babies were for sale. And he saw all kinds of illegal dandies, ranging from gas canisters no bigger than his index finger that contained deadly viruses or poisons, to used Salukan percus­sion rifles. This was the first shop he'd ever seen that actually offered shadow nets for sale.
Caesar wanted to spend the rest of his life in here, just looking and handling, but he forced himself to remember his job. Walking up to the counter, he faced the one-eyed Salukan as though he dealt with Alliance enemies every day of the week.
"Got any Amber 40s, GK special series?" he asked.
Ambers were eight-meter-long artillery guns designed for mounting on all-terrain tanks. Three weeks ago, a shipment of them had been stolen in transit between the munitions factory on Alpha Toon and Station 18. It had either been a direct pirate raid by whoever was stockpiling major weapons shipments, or someone was hoping to speculate the guns on the current buying market. Either way, Kelly wanted it checked out. Caesar wished Kelly could get over his civic-mindedness; after all, they were no longer nice little Hawks serving the public good.
The Salukan stared at Caesar a moment, then his gaze wandered past Caesar to Phila, who was slowly circling the shop.
"You do know what I'm talking about," said Caesar.
The Salukan inclined with a contemptuous sneer. "I do not sell artillery."
"Sure, not in here," said Caesar, keeping his temper. "But have you got an access line to any?"
"No."
Caesar stretched out his wrist on the counter and flicked a setting on his wristband to show his credit status. The banking industry had gone to a lot of trouble to make credit data lines immune from forgery, but the Infiltration Lab could forge anything. The readout flashed and was reflected in the Salu-kan's eyes. Those eyes narrowed with sharp interest.
Caesar grinned and snapped off the data line. "Care to start over with this little conversation?"
"I do not sell Ambers," said the Salukan. He hissed softly to himself; plainly his mind was calculating at lightning speed. "I know that some went through the broker on Cilea Street."
Caesar raised his brows and Phila stopped her nervous pacing. "Where's that?"
"No, no, my friend. The broker is not a shopkeeper such as myself. This is big time I am speaking of. Very big time."
"And I'm not?"
"You have good credit," said the Salukan, baring his teeth, "but not good enough."
"I can get more."
The Salukan blinked. "Then, my friend, you will meet this broker. I can call her and arrange the meeting, for a consider­ation, of course."
Caesar shrugged.
"She will want to know who you represent."
That stopped Caesar. Dismayed, he struggled desperately to come up with a plausible lie. He'd figured that his credit line could carry him anywhere. Before he could say he didn't represent anyone but himself, Phila stepped forward.
"We aren't authorized to release that information," she said.
The Salukan ignored her and kept his gaze on Caesar. "It could make a large difference in getting the deal you want."
"No," said Phila.
"No," said Caesar.
The Salukan shook his hands. "Then I can do nothing."
Even Caesar could see that was as far as they were going to get. Phila started for the door, but Caesar hesitated.
"You ever sell belt teleports?" he asked.
"There is no such thing."
"The last time I visited Methanus City I saw one. Sure you don't have it?"
"I have no wares to interest you," said the Salukan.
Back out on the street in the lash of the wind, Caesar and Phila looked at each other.
"Stupid, Caesar," she said. "Yusus, you were about to play the big shot and blow everything."
"Why can't I be the buyer?" he asked, hurt by her scorn. "Why? Do I have to wear red diamond earrings and come in with an entourage?"
"That's about what it takes around here," she said. Pulling out a hand-scanner, she took their bearings and pointed. "Cilea Street is that way. You look like you could be someone's bodyguard if they were desperate for protection, but that's about it."
"Thank you so much," said Caesar angrily.
"Can the tantrum and come on."
They hiked all the way to Cilea Street, which was dark and narrow and deserted except for some sinister-looking types lounging at windows and doorways. No force walls shimmered here.
Caesar drew himself into a tight knot of readiness, his shoulder blades itching as though someone was sighting on them. A hunter flew overhead, and Caesar jerked up his pistol, but it never came within range.
Phila tapped his arm. "Ease off," she murmured. "You're wound too tight.""
"Yeah," he said under his breath and unslung his launcher. Its weight on his arm made him feel a little more confident, but not much. "This place gives me the—"
"Hush!" She shoved him into the inky shadows lurking near a deserted doorway.
Just as they took cover an aircab came out of nowhere, flying in silence beneath the raging howl of the wind. It landed on the street, and a scanner dish rotated to check the area before the hatch lifted and three individuals got out.
Caesar stopped breathing. He knew his force shield made him invisible to most conventional scanners. From their
actions, the newcomers hadn't detected his and Phila's pres­ence. Phila had her own scanner aimed at them with her hand covering the readout. Caesar could feel the excitement radiat­ing from her.
"I'm getting their voices," she breathed. "They're speaking Saluk."
"Record it," said Caesar.
He sensed rather than saw her head turn to look at him.
"I am, Caesar," she said dryly. "What do you think I am, stupid?"
He blew out a breath. "Sorry. Yusus, don't be so touchy."
"Then ease off."
After a few seconds of silence between them, she slipped something small and ovoid into his hand. He recognized it by the shape: a homing transmitter.
"Hurry before they come out," she whispered.
His nerves jerked into fresh knots. Without giving himself time to think about it, he handed his launcher to Phila and darted across the street to the aircab. He crouched and stuck the transmitter to its undercarriage, then heard the door open. Light spilled out over the cab. Caesar froze in place, his heart hammering wildly. There was a murmur of voices, then the soft scrape of footsteps upon the pavement. They came around the front of the aircab. Caesar scuttled to the rear, curling himself into a tight ball to avoid the light fanning out around both ends of the cab.
His translator picked up snatches of their conversation:
"... well for us."
"Ahe, but I dislike going into Opie's villa to consummate the final dealing."
Mocking laughter. The scuffle of wind-whipped robes and a grunt as they climbed into the aircab.
"... afraid of Opie? Or the food he will offer us tonight?"
The hatch slammed. Caesar still crouched at the rear, no longer caring that he had escaped detection. They were going to Harva Opie's place tonight, probably right now. This was his chance to get in.
Without thinking, he slid himself beneath the aircab, fitting
his legs onto the slim brackets of the undercarriage and hanging onto the tail fin with both hands. The air jets nearly blasted him from his precarious position, and the cab rose straight up. There was nothing supporting his back but thin air. Turbulence bumped the cab as it cleared the buildings, and one of Caesar's legs slid off the bracket. His body dangled, legs flailing, hands slipping on the tail fin before he managed to hook his elbow over it.
He rested his cheek against the metal, his shield crackling lightly. Below him he saw Phila run out into the street, waving frantically. She became just a little speck. The rear jets cut in, and the aircab zoomed forward. Again Caesar nearly lost his hold. He wondered how long he had until the cross-currents whipped him off or his hands gave out. The bright city lights spun beneath him, making him so dizzy he shut his eyes.
They reached the upper level of the city—casinos floating on expensive anti-grav units, restaurants and gardens protected within environment bubbles. People floated everywhere, their rich clothes billowing in the wind, bodyguards flanking them for protection. Many pointed at him, laughing.
A wind sail darted at him in a series of skillful moves. He saw the operator, slim and laughing behind a set of goggles. The wind sail looped beneath him, then caught a rising current of air and zoomed up, catching Caesar's legs and nearly jerking him off. He cursed, struggling to hang on.
The wind sail skimmed by again, leaning in to gouge him with a wing tip. Furious, Caesar decided to put an end to this boo-head's fun and games. Just as the wing tip raked painfully across his midsection, Caesar loosed one hand and grabbed the wing. He gave it a strong jerk that snapped the fragile struts. The wind sail plummeted.
The aircab was going even faster now as it cleared traffic and headed beyond the city. The stars overhead were a cold blur. The air at this speed was too thin even for his nostril feed to supplement adequately. He was getting very cold. Soon his hands would go numb and he would fall.
Fear was a weight, like those in his boots, dragging him down. He wished Siggerson had come up with more than that
one way for them to infiltrate Opie's villa. It hadn't been an option they could use. But it might have worked. It would have been easier than this.
Caesar could no longer feel anything in his fingers but a dull ache that was growing steadily intolerable. He didn't think he was going to get there.
Just one little greasy spot somewhere on the barren plains of Methanus. He supposed his epitaph could read: "Good idea. Poor execution."
Up on the Sabre, Siggerson had his hands full trying to keep his vessel from being rammed. No one on Methanus directed orbital traffic. There were no rules, no regulations. Pilots came in, established geosynchronous or non-geosynchronous orbits as they pleased, with or without beacon warnings, and played chicken to keep their positions on the crowded orbital lanes. It was a constant juggle. Siggerson loathed every second of it. He had the force wall up and the systems on collision alert. Even way out at forty-thousand kilometers-—the extreme range of their teleport—he was still having traffic problems.
Worst of all, two ships—obviously smugglers from the configuration of their oversized engine mounts and false-bottom holds—had flanked him in the past ten minutes. They were nudging so closely the collision warning klaxon kept coming on. Siggerson's ears were ringing, but he didn't dare cancel the collision warning system under current conditions.
The outside communications line kept buzzing. "Ahoy, Alliance ship. Stand by for docking linkup. Lower your force wall for inspection boarding, over."
From her position on the corner of his master station, Ouoji 75
cluttered angrily. Her fur was rumpled and looked dirty as though she had stopped grooming herself. She kept shifting around and paced back and forth along the edge of his console until he lost patience and swept her off.
She landed with a heavy thump, and it seemed to pain her. Distracted, Siggerson glanced at her. "Ouoji? Sorry, but I'm busy right now. I can't have you in the way."
Ouoji lashed her tail and limped away from him. Concerned, he started to call after her but the incoming transmission came again:
"Alliance ship. Lower your force wall for inspection board­ing."
Siggerson gritted his teeth. He wanted to shut down his outside line, but he didn't dare. Kelly would be checking in at any minute.
"Alliance ship. Lower your—"
Siggerson punched in. "No boarding. No inspection. Back off."
"We are authorized by the Methanus Council of—"
Another transmission cut in, its frequency preset to override any other. "Siggerson. Come in, Siggerson. This is Mohatsa, over."
Her voice was scratchy through the scrambler. Siggerson boosted the signal receptor in an effort to clean up the transmission.
"I've got you," he said. "The monitors show that you've all split up. What—"
"Listen. There's not much time. I can't get Kelly or Beaulieu. Have they contacted you?"
"No. You're the first to check in. What's—"
"Caesar's on an aircab that's going to Opie's villa."
Siggerson frowned. "You're going too fast. Slow down and repeat."
"There's no time. When the aircab gets there, the villa will have to drop its force wall to let the cab in. Can you monitor that?"
As though he had nothing else to do. He nudged helm controls to ease off collision course yet again, glaring at the
smuggler filling the main viewscreen. "Yes, if necessary. What is happening with—"
"I want you to teleport me into the villa the moment the force wall goes down. I don't know how fast the aircab is moving, so I can't judge the time factor. You'd better hurry with the coordinate calculations, just in case."
"You're crazy!" he shouted. "You can't go in there alone. We aren't going to repeat the mistakes we made last time."
"I won't be alone," she yelled back. The transmission wavered, then steadied as the receptor combed it clean again. "Caesar will be there. It's the only way. Meanwhile, try to contact Kelly or at least give me a fix on his position."
Siggerson looked wildly at his monitors. The coordinate grid was shifting rapidly to keep up with Caesar. Kelly and Beaulieu were stationary, not far from the original teleport position. He reached out to start feeding data into the teleport, but a flare of blinding light on the viewscreen gave him only a split-second warning before the ship lurched violently. Flung off his feet, Siggerson lay stunned on the deck a moment, then he picked himself up and made a quick systems check.
One of the smugglers had fired on them. At this point-blank range, with two ships firing, the Sabre's force wall wouldn't hold long. If he fired back, they were likely to destroy him. He would have to break orbit to gain himself room to maneuver, and that would put him out of teleport range. Meanwhile, the squad was already in trouble less than an hour into the mission. If he abandoned them now . . .
"Siggerson!" yelled Phila's voice. "Siggerson, come in! What's going on up there?"
Another blast rocked the ship. Hanging on grimly, Siggerson managed to keep his feet, but readouts were flashing all over his master boards, the data coming so fast he couldn't assimilate it all. Force wall power reduction was twenty-five percent, meaning that another blast would drop it to fifty percent. Below fifty percent, the ship stood a high risk of serious damage. He had to get her out, break free of these damned pirates, then bring her back in under the waver shield.
And he had better bring Phila up to give him a hand.
"Phila?" he said. "Stand by for teleport."
His hands raced over the controls which fed directly down to the teleport bay on deck three. He had her position locked in. All he needed was . . .
He stared a moment at the negative light flashing insistently before him before his wits registered what it meant. Impossi­ble. Of course he had a confirmed signal on her. There must be a glitch somewhere in the system, probably caused from damage from that last shot they'd taken. He directed an override, but the negative light went on flashing.
No teleport contact.
He realized she hadn't responded to his last transmission. "Sabre to Mohatsa," he said. "Answer me, Phila. Why have you taken off your wristband? I need to bring you up now."
No response. Negative teleport contact.
He frowned while alarm curled through him. She still showed up on his monitor board. Her transponder would go on transmitting her position as long as she remained alive, but without teleport contact he couldn't help her.
"Phila!" he shouted.
Nothing.
He switched the frequency to Kelly's wristband and started calling. No response. No response from Beaulieu. No response from Caesar. Then Caesar's position crossed the coordinates of Opie's villa. Three seconds later, it vanished off the monitor. Siggerson stared at it, trying to make sense of what his instruments were telling him, trying to remain calm, trying not to let frustration and despair overtake him. Either Caesar was dead, or the villa's heavy shielding had cut off his transpon­der's signal.
Siggerson tried to call Kelly one more time, but the ship lurched so violently he went tumbling halfway across the bridge. From somewhere he heard Ouoji's cry of pain, and agony shot through his left wrist with such intensity he felt a cold, gray sweat break out over him.
Somehow he pushed himself to his feet, aware that the deck was still tilted. Some of the lights were out. He veered back to his master station, propping himself up by leaning against the
console. Force wall power was down to forty-five percent. He could smell smoke; it was getting thick around him. Alarms were going off inside the ship, but there was no one but himself to hear them. No one but himself to respond to the urgent need for repair and containment.
Dry fire control chemical started falling. It drifted into his face, choking him. He wasn't supposed to breathe the stuff. He was supposed to clear the area until the fire was contained.
Fumbling, half able to see in the smoke, he turned to leave. Inadvertently he reached out with his left hand to steady himself. The sharp burst of pain in his wrist brought clarity back to his mind.
Was he mad? He couldn't leave the bridge at a time like this. He had to get the ship out of here, had to break away before they boarded her and claimed her and sliced her up for parts.
The trajectory course was already plotted and laid in, just waiting for the necessary signal. One-handed, he activated the astrogation computer and switched helm to manual. The engines shuddered, and the vibration through the deck told him something had been shaken seriously off balance. He couldn't worry about that now.
"I'm sorry," he whispered aloud, and got the Sabre out of there.
Kelly woke up to a pounding migraine and the wrenched, sour certainty that he had been sick. He was lying on his right side with his hands bound behind him. His right arm had gone to sleep from the dead weight of his body on it. He rolled onto his back, grunting at the pressure that it put on his bound hands, and squirmed until he managed to get on his left side. The headache pounded more fiercely, blasting every other consideration away. When it finally eased up a fraction, Kelly opened his eyes with a sigh of relief and found himself looking at a small, narrow room lit by a single red lamp which made him feel as though everything had been coated in blood.
He also saw Beaulieu lying face down on the cot opposite his. Her hands were shackled behind her, and he couldn't see her face. He hoped she hadn't smothered, lying there like that.
"Beaulieu?" he said thickly.
Speaking was a mistake. The migraine flared, punishing him. At that moment he would have gladly severed his head and thrown it across the room, just to be rid of the pain.
He could locate the worst of the throbbing at his left temple. Having that part of his skull mashed to the cot didn't help the pain ease off any, but he didn't want to thrash around again in order to move. It wasn't worth it.
Now he remembered that he'd been hit in the head, twice at least. He'd been fighting. His force shield had failed ... in the club . . . Harva Opie's club . . . talking to manager.
His memory came back, surging with the pain. Kelly thought about sitting up, then decided it wouldn't do him much good to try. He wondered what that Boxcan had hit him with.
He wasn't wearing his body armor, and he wasn't wearing his wristband. He'd been stripped down to his underwear, and he was cold.
Losing track of time, he dozed in and out, depending on the intensity of his migraine, until Beaulieu finally stirred and mumbled something. Before Kelly could speak to her, the door slammed open. Blinding light spilled inside. Kelly squinted and raised his head, but the silhouettes of two figures were too blurry and shadowed for him to recognize them.
"She's coming round," said the voice of the manager. "Put her out again. Sit him up."
"No," whispered Kelly, but the second figure seemed not to hear. He stepped between the cots and bent over Beaulieu to affix a small drug patch to her throat.
Kelly heard her breathing slow and deepen. He frowned, worried about what they were giving her.
The man turned to him and pulled him upright. Kelly groaned, drawn with the pain that was splitting his skull apart. Through that agony he was barely aware of being propped against the wall or of the fingers that probed at his temple. Their light touch, however, made him gasp sharply.
"You need something for this pain," said a soft voice that hissed on the sibilants.
Kelly's body grasped this offer of help like a drowning man
thrown a rope. But his own eagerness horrified him. He was too afraid of falling back into the pit of dependency, and he didn't trust them.
"No!" he said, and his voice showed his fear. "Nothing."
"A simple localizer, nothing more," said the voice sooth­ingly.
Kelly struggled, but not well. In the end he could do nothing but shrink away, his eyes clenched shut, his voice begging like a child's, "No, don't. No, don't. No, don't."
The touch of the patch on his skin shut him up. A second later he felt the painkiller flow through him, sucking away the pain, masking it, giving him a relief that was so sharp he sagged against the wall supporting him.
"Yes, that's better," whispered the voice.
The fingers probed his temple again, but now Kelly felt nothing beyond a muted sensation of pressure. His skull seemed to have become hollow. The touches were like thumps which echoed softly in his ears. He did not lose consciousness, but reality seemed just one step away. It was pleasant to float again. He knew he shouldn't, that it was bad for him, but right now his body welcomed the pleasantness and wondered why he had ever tried to escape it.
"Get him on his feet," said the manager. "Transportation is waiting."
Kelly didn't argue when they pulled him up off the cot. He staggered from the room into the corridor. In the distance he could hear the babble of voices interwoven with music. He realized that he was still in the club, somewhere in the back rooms or offices. He was surprised they hadn't killed him and dumped him out already.
"Strong and well build for a human. He'll bring a good price."
Alarm pinged distantly inside Kelly. He didn't want to be a slave again. Going on the block once had been sufficient humiliation. He'd better do something.
With an effort he lifted his head. He tried to focus on their faces, but that was too hard. The words were more important so he concentrated on them instead. "Not for sale," he said, his
words running together. "Talk to Opie. Want . . . want 41 back. Deal."
"What is he babbling about?" asked the manager. "Let's get him loaded."
"Wait," said the other. "He mentioned 41.1 know of such a one. There might be interest from—"
"No way," said the manager angrily. "I'm not calling Opie about some junk-head who tried to shoot up the club."
Kelly's legs were melting. He noticed that he was growing shorter despite his captors' efforts to jerk him back onto his feet. Forcing himself to concentrate, he said, "StarHawks. Opie interested in that?"
For a moment his captors said nothing.
"Get him back in the room," said the manager with a sigh. "I'll call Opie about this."
"I think that is very wise," said the other. His face moved close to Kelly's, and Kelly saw thin, reptilian features of a species unknown to him. "You had better sleep so that you cause no trouble."
Kelly opened his mouth to protest, but the words came too slowly. Something pricked his throat, and he fell into a deep, cold blackness.
A slap woke him up the next time. He came to in a place that was too hot, too shadowy, too humid for comfort. Sweat ran into his eyes. He found himself panting for breath. The bad taste in his mouth had a chemical tang now; he wondered what they'd given him.
"Come on, come on," said a gruff impatient voice. "You're awake. Quit stalling and sit up."
Little whispery things ran over his hands and up his arms. He saw that they were insects. In a panic he slapped them away and jerked himself to his feet, knocking off the damp warm soil that clung to him. Plant fronds tickled his face and he flinched, then got hold of himself. He was breathing too hard. His heart was beating too fast. The place smelled of plants and decay. It reminded him of Kenszana.
But instinct told him he was still indoors. He did not quite let panic overtake him.
"Watch him!" said an old voice in sharp warning.
From the shadows a noose appeared. It looped around his wrist and jerked taut. Another did the same to his other wrist. Tethered, he stood there, squinting into the gloom and trying to make sense of what was happening.
Head games, he told himself. Disorient the prisoner before interrogation.
He heard rustling and the soft whine of machinery. Some­thing approached him, gliding out of the shadows until he could see the outlines of it. A man, sitting in a life support box. He was human in appearance from the waist up, cubical machine from the waist down.
When he was so close that the base of his support box nearly touched Kelly's leg, he stopped and met Kelly's gaze with a penetrating one of his own. Kelly recognized the gaunt, weathered face and the single eye long before Harva Opie spoke.
"You are Commander Bryan Kelly of Allied Intelligence Agency's Special Operations branch. Number 400659773."
Kelly jerked with surprise. No one had access to the last three digits of his serial number. That was a highly classified, personal identification suffix.
"You have the prefix digits 400, signifying Intelligence work and high security clearance. The digit 6 indicates that you are under Fleet Admiral Jedderson's jurisdiction, naturally since he created the StarHawks. You are in Division 5, otherwise known as Peregrine Division. You lead Alpha Squad. Your personal identification number in full is 773-02-991. That, of course, gives me access to your credit data, your personal insurance records, your full financial history, your service record, your family background, your . . . medical reports."
Opie's voice was as thin and dry as old paper. Nevertheless, Kelly did not underestimate him for an instant. He might be old; obviously he was ill. But his mind was razor sharp. And he possessed far too much privileged information.
Kelly swallowed a couple of times, trying to gather enough saliva to make his words come out evenly. "That's right," he said at last. "So?"
"Always know your opponent, Kelly. Know his strengths and weaknesses. Know his mind and his desires. You foolishly came twice to Methanus. The first time we did not care. This time is different. What do you desire to talk to me about, Kelly?"
"I want 41," said Kelly, looking him in the eye.
Opie blinked. "41?" he said blankly. "What is 41?"
"You know who he is. You know what he is. You trained him. You've got him now. I want him back."
"If I understand your cryptic remarks correctly, 41 is a person?" Opie bared his teeth in what might have been meant for a smile. "One of my mercenaries? I have a great many in my employ. Records will be able to—"
"You keep your records in your head," said Kelly harshly, tired of this game. "You know exactly who he is. Now I don't know how far back the two of you go, but I do know that when he left your army to go out on his own you didn't take it well. And I know he worked some kind of deal to get you to help him rescue me at Kenszana a few weeks ago."
"Well, then," said Opie, spreading his hands out slightly. "If a deal was worked, it was worked. I don't do charity favors. The matter is between me and 41."
"No, it is not," snapped Kelly. "I happen to be his commanding officer and his friend. I happen to know he was taken off Kenszana by force, against his will by Taft."
"Ah, Taft!" said Opie with pleasure. "Then you have met the captain? He is an able officer."
"He is a borg," said Kelly.
The smile faded from Opie's face. His eye narrowed and for an instant he looked like the dangerous man he was. "You had a liberal education. Are you deliberately seeking to appear biased, thus making me misjudge you? Are you capable of such trickery, Kelly?"
Kelly stared at him without reply.
Opie gestured. "I live in this support box. From the waist
down I have ceased to exist organically. My own intestines have rotted away, my liver is failing, my spleen has long since gone—machines keep me alive. You might also call me a borg."
"No," said Kelly.
Opie smiled and reached out. His thin, wrinkled hand closed around Kelly's wrist. His fingers were dry; the bones poked against the skin. When he tightened his grip, however, Kelly felt an unnatural strength and knew that nothing was as it seemed.
"I could crush your bones into powder," said Opie. He squeezed hard enough for Kelly to feel his hand go numb. Then the intolerable pressure ceased, and Opie released him.
"There is no pleasure in debating the merits of cybernetics with you," said Opie. "Your mind is closed with fear and prejudice. That makes you weak, and us even stronger. You cannot have 41.1 do not know why you should even want him, unless it is to kill him for betraying service secrets."
"He is my friend."
"41 has no friends. He has only enemies and masters. 41 is a tool, to be picked up and wielded when necessary, locked away when he is not. You have come to Methanus to execute him."
"No!" said Kelly hotly. "I am here to—"
He broke off, aware that Opie was watching him like a cat ready to pounce. Sweat dripped off Kelly. He could feel the insects still slithering and crawling over his feet and up his ankles. He stamped to knock them off, and wanted desperately to be out of this hothouse.
Opie sighed. "Very well. You are a clever man, Kelly. You would not be in the position you hold if you were less. Don't invent a lie. I know that agents have been here to kill 41. I know he is considered a traitor by your officials. I know that you have broken the laws you normally obey in order to come here for a rescue. You are a romantic, Kelly. 41 is not worth such sacrifice."
"I think he is."
"But I know him so much better than you. He was created
in a laboratory as part of a series of biological experiments of hybrid cross-breeding. You know the sort of thing—in-vitro fertilization . . . artificial wombs. It is rare that such a cross is created in any other fashion; humans and Salukans hate each other too much to be curious about biology. The lab generated several series of hybrids of various species. Because it was located on an uncolonized world, it answered to none of the usual regulations slapped over so many genetic engineers.
"It also fell victim to one of the wars raging at that end of the galaxy. Its supply ships were cut off. The scientists eventually died from lack of food and medical supplies. The children they had created remained. Most of them also died. But some survived as wild as savages, living in an empty land."
Kelly thought of the extinct race of Svetzin, extinct at least in the corporeal sense, and how they had raised 41 during his early childhood years. What Opie was saying could fit in, but it could just as easily be lies.
"You look skeptical, Kelly. Has 41 invented a tale that appeals to your romantic nature? I found this world while serving on a slaver. We rounded up the brats and sold them for a small profit. 41 went to a moon colony, I forget exactly which one, and learned how to farm. They gave him that number, to keep track of their survival pod counts, and he's clung to it ever since. I had noticed the boy and thought he looked like he might grow into a useful size. When I ran into him later on, I hired him and trained him. He was good at fighting, but he couldn't follow orders. Maybe with you in command, he's changed?"
Kelly sighed. "Not really."
"No, or he wouldn't have returned to me. They say the first five years of life are the most important. He had no discipline then; he can't accept it now. Pity. I had him marked as my executive officer."
"And successor," said Kelly.
"Yes." Opie looked bleak. "He was like a son to me. I taught him things that I've never shared with anyone else. He betrayed that. Natural for him. His gene structure was designed that way. I have the lab records, but much was garbled and
lost, and they have never explained exactly what purpose he was to be used for. Still, it's disappointing. Taft is adequate—"
"Taft," said Kelly, "is crazy. His brain is rotting from tapo addiction."
"So is yours," said Opie sharply.
That blow went home. Kelly shut his eyes a moment, then opened them. "I'm clean," he said firmly. "Unless . . . unless you've put me back on it."
"An interesting speculation. No, I have not. Why waste the substance?"
Kelly went cold with relief. That fear had been knotting him ever since he regained consciousness.
"Where is 41?" he asked. "Is he here on Methanus? Or is he on Bonag?"
Opie blinked, looking surprised and angry. "You know about Bonag? How?"
Kelly shrugged. "You know my secrets. I know yours. Where is 41?"
"He will not return to you, Kelly."
"I'd like to ask him that myself."
Opie shook his head. "You have squandered your courage on a fool's errand. Did you know he promised to give us classified information in exchange for helping him save your life? Once he would have made such sacrifices for me, Kelly."
"Jealous, Opie?"
"You are not worth the emotion. And neither is 41. It might interest you to know that he did not keep his side of the bargain. He told my interrogators nothing of Special Opera­tions that we did not already know. Even the mind sieve did not break his conditioning. He promised me that he had jumped ship without being conditioned, but that was a lie. He made a fool of me, and he will pay for that a long, long time."
"Then he's still alive," said Kelly, and his voice was more hopeful than he wanted to reveal.
Opie looked sharply at him. "Oh, yes. He's alive. And he is here."
"Let me see him," said Kelly.
"You would be wise to worry about yourself."
Kelly shook his head. "You've talked freely. That means you're going to kill me. My medic Beaulieu is probably already dead. I have nothing to lose."
Opie broke into wheezing laughter. "A romantic indeed! Kill you? Why should I waste good ammunition and lose profit? No, no, Kelly. You will fetch a good price on the market. I am going to sell you and your companion, as well as any of the rest of your squad I can round up. As for your ship—"
"What about my ship?" said Kelly in alarm.
"Why, she will give me all kinds of interesting technology to sell to my Salukan friends."
"Along with the weapons you've been stockpiling for them?" said Kelly quickly.
"Yes. They—" Opie broke off. His eye narrowed.
"I thought so," said Kelly. "You've brokered weapons before. Just because you're wealthy and successful doesn't mean you've decided to go after personal power as well. I couldn't quite believe the theory that you are going to slice off a chunk of Alliance territory for yourself. No, it had to be the Salukans and their civil war. I hope you've picked the winning side, Opie. They're tricky bastards to deal with."
Opie stared at him, saying nothing.
Kelly had nothing to lose by keeping quiet now. He went on mocking. "Well, as they say, Opie, once a mercenary always a mercenary. You'll never create your own territory because your self-concept won't let you consider the idea until you're too old, tired, and sick to do it. Taft won't do it for you. He's not smart enough. 41 let you down. What's it all good for, Opie? All this wealth you've amassed? You can't take it with you."
"No," said Opie at last, his voice soft but angry. "But at least I am going to live longer than you."
He touched a control and his box glided back from Kelly. "Taft," he said over his shoulder and Kelly stiffened at the thought of Taft lurking all this time in the shadows, listening to every mocking word and insult. "I think we should let Mr.
Kelly see his friend after all. Just a brief glimpse before he goes to auction."
Taft came striding out of the gloom. He towered over Kelly, his muscular torso overdeveloped to the point of grotesque-ness. He was bare to the waist, and sweat glistened on his skin. Three jacks set in a triangle marred his chest. He had another jack on his right side, just under his last rib. He was wearing a wristband, with the wire running up his arm and shoulder into his ear. His emerald stud glittered in his earlobe. His red eyes glared at Kelly.
"I think he should be torn apart," said Taft in a voice like a rumble. Even in mere-speak, the least intellectual language of the civilized planets, he was barely intelligible. "Tom apart and borged."
"Perhaps we'll do that if he doesn't sell," said Opie with indifference. "Of course the Mechtaxlan Cartel might want to buy him. I'll see if we can't arrange a private sale."
"Better to rip him apart and borg him," said Taft.
"Not now," said Opie sharply. "Let him see 41 first, then I'll give you your next orders."
Opie glided away and Taft put an enormous hand upon Kelly's shoulder. He had only to squeeze and Kelly's clavicle would be snapped like a stick. Kelly swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet those red, insane eyes. It was like staring into hell, into laughter that never stopped, into total amorality without conscience or brake.
Taft laughed and Kelly could feel his breath, warm and unpleasant. "Sure, you can see 41," he said in street-Glish. "We're going to borg him too. I've just been waiting until you came to make it more fun."
Still hurtling through the air on the tail fin of the aircab, Caesar looked down and saw the enormous black dome of Harva Opie's headquarters. Five stories high, crafted of hull-weight pyrillium, and fitted with beacon lights, sensor grids, and rotating transmission dishes, it looked like a gigantic spacecraft that had been grounded. The aircab paused above the force wall and hovered. When the force wall dropped, so did the aircab, with a suddenness that left the pit of Caesar's stomach behind. He saw the rounded apex of the dome slide open in two halves to reveal a landing pad. Guidance lights stabbed upward, blinding Caesar.
If anyone was watching they would be able to see him plainly. All they had to do was inform the aircab and it could land hard enough to squash him.
Desperately Caesar squirmed in an effort to curl up his legs and slide them back onto the landing gear brackets. Every swing of his body threatened his precarious hold, but he kept trying. His body was numb and clumsy with cold. He had long since lost most of the feeling in his hands. But he had his elbows crooked over the tail fin, and he wasn't going to let go.
91
Glancing down, he saw the pad rushing at him, scant meters away. Desperation gave him the necessary adrenaline boost, and he caught his heel on the bracket. Seconds later the bottom air jets came on, buffeting him.
He lost his hold altogether and fell with a scream that was lost in the roar of the landing jets. There wasn't time to twist around in mid-air. He landed flat on his back and the aircab was right on top of him, settling on its landing brackets scant centimeters above Caesar's face.
Stunned by the impact, he lay there on the landing grid unable to move and wondered if his back was broken. The air jets cut off, and in the welcome quiet Caesar heard the click of the hatch opening. The Salukan passengers got out and filed off the landing pad through a nearby doorway. Caesar glimpsed their feet disappearing. Overhead, the opening to the sky closed, and the lights dimmed to a less blinding intensity.
Caesar tried moving his right foot, then his left. He felt like a block of ice, but both his legs wiggled. His arms moved. No breakage then. No paralysis. His fall had probably been less than two meters, although it had seemed to take an eternity. He grinned to himself, finally daring to believe that he had made it.
Then he heard the click of footsteps approaching the aircab. That peculiar sliding click came from magnetic plates in bootsoles. And since Caesar couldn't imagine why anyone would be wearing space gear in here, it had to be a robot.
"Emerge," said a synthesized voice.
Caesar's hand went automatically to his pistol. Sweat broke out across his forehead. "I can't," he said breathlessly. "My back is broken."
"Sensors register weapons. Remove them."
"I can't," said Caesar. "I can't move. My back is broken. I'm paralyzed."
There was silence as though the robot awaited instructions. Then it knelt by the aircab. Caesar felt it grasp his shoulder and was glad of the protection his body armor provided. The robot dragged him out from under the aircab. Caesar held his pistol
clamped to his chest, holding his breath as he waited for his chance.
The moment he cleared the aircab and found himself staring directly into the pulsating diodes of the robot's face, Caesar fired.
It was a one-chance shot, requiring precise aim and a lot of luck. He hit the robot square in the diodes, and sparks showered over him as the robot's brain circuits shorted out.
Caesar rolled over and scrambled to his feet, swinging around with his pistol arm extended to check the rest of the landing pad. This seemed to be the only robot on duty. Caesar kicked the hunk of machinery over and ripped off its auxiliary pack, smashed its communications unit, and unscrewed its forearms. Only one arm contained a weapon. Tossing that away since it wasn't something he could use, Caesar circled the pad cautiously, and discovered there was no exit except the way he'd come in.
He was still standing there, wishing he had his launcher and trying to figure out what he was going to do next, when he heard the hum of machinery start up. Turning, he saw the grid supporting the aircab rotate slowly and start to descend.
Without hesitation, Caesar climbed into the aircab, pulling down the hatch after him. The plush interior smelled of Salukan perfume and liquor. Wrinkling his nose, Caesar sorted quickly through the litter in the passenger seats, but they'd polished off their supply of strong drink. He tossed down the empty bottle.
"Selfish Salukan swine," he said aloud and hunched low in the cockpit so he wouldn't show through the aircab's front viewport.
No one approached the aircab. After several tense minutes, Caesar peered cautiously through the viewport and saw a cavernous hangar filled with Salukan land crawlers, supply transports, cargo loaders, missile stacks, small one-seater fighting aircraft, and a sleek, black-hulled spacecraft shaped like the Glish letter W. Although it looked large here in land-dock, for a spaceship it was small—about the size of their old Valiant.
Caesar stared at it, awed by its sinister beauty and impressed by its design. He'd never seen anything like it before. And he didn't have to be an engineer from the Minza University of Aeronautical Design to know that it was very different and very lethal.
He told himself it was a good thing Siggerson wasn't down here. The pilot would defect in a minute just for a chance to fly that thing.
Except that there was something odd about its size. He frowned, wishing for a pair of binocs. Bringing up his hand scanner, he took a sighting on it, although at this distance he didn't get much information beyond external size.
That was it. The size. Its span was large enough, but its depth was only two meters. When you subtracted for internal bulkheads, seats, instrumentation, and the like, there wasn't enough room for anyone bigger than a midget to fit inside there.
So what was it? A robot ship?
Caesar thought about the implications of that. Robot ships had been tried before, without much success. Computers could do a lot, but even artificial intelligence had its limitations. Organic pilots and captains won the battle every time.
That was nice for the ego, if you happened to be an organic, but Caesar figured that this ship being in the hangar of a mercenary leader known for extensive use of cyborg soldiers wasn't just coincidence.
He had to see this thing close up.
Juggling scanner and weapon, he eased up the hatch a fraction and scanned his immediate area for signs of life. Four robots on shut-down near the cargo loaders. Two guards by the down ramp of the ship.
Caesar sighed. Nobody ever said this job was easy.
He slipped out of the aircab and darted for cover behind the missiles. The distance between his position and that of the guards made skulking around easier, but he had to be careful in the general quiet that his boots didn't echo in the large space.
He crouched by the Amber 40s, which were still wearing their Alliance shipment tags. Caesar made a recording scan of
them for a little hard evidence, and then crept steathily to the opposite end of the hangar.
The closer he got, the less cover he found. The black ship rested on jointed landing gear and was cocked slightly higher in the stern, like a gigantic insect ready to fight. Caesar crouched behind a short stack of stasis boxes about twenty meters away from the ramp. And in between was only bare space.
He delayed a bit by just sitting there and staring at the ship. Out in the infinite reaches of space, she would look wafer thin, almost invisible, on the z axis.
What propelled her? She lacked a light scoop, indicating no photonic drive. But she looked faster than conventional implo­sion ships.
The guards were talking to each other, standing slack with their sidearms bolstered. One shook open a pack of slo-sticks and shared it. As sentries they were slackers, but why did they need to be otherwise? This place was considered impregnable.
And the sweet angels watch over fools, thought Caesar.
He could squat here next to these stasis boxes until his feet went numb, or he could take some risks.
Neither of the guards was looking his way. Caesar aimed his Maxell. Two quick shots, and the guards lay smoking on the deck.
If they were borgs, they might or might not be dead. He ducked out of hiding and ran up to them with his nerves on hair-trigger. He kicked one and got no response. Kicked the other, who didn't stir either. They weren't in armor.
Just to take no chances, he disarmed both of them and dragged them off behind the stasis boxes. Glancing around for a surveillance cam, he failed to spot one. That worried him. It had to exist, but if he couldn't find it he couldn't put it out of commission.
Either way, he figured he had just a few minutes to get into the ship and look it over.
Running up the ramp, he ducked into a tiny turnaround so low he couldn't stand erect. The interior was even smaller than he'd expected. He squeezed through a central clearance that
might be termed a corridor by someone wildly imaginative. His shoulders brushed wiring coils hanging in unconnected knots out of opened cases. He had his scanner running on record, and he wished he knew what he was looking at.
In what should have been the cockpit, he found two couches practically horizontal with connector jacks and a large interface unit. Caesar stared in dawning understanding. This was a borg ship, to be flown by borgs interfacing completely with ship systems.
He nearly dropped the scanner in his excitement. As soon as he had the cockpit recorded, he set to work on opening the interface unit. He had to mangle it a bit with his prong, but finally he flipped the casing open and peered inside at the complex maze. He ran the scanner over it, then nudged aside a membraneous sac of what was probably special DNA ooze. Circuit boards lay beneath it. He lifted out two and slipped them into his pocket. Shutting the casing, he backed out fast.
Past the exit, he saw the engines—sleek, featureless tubes shielded by some ceramic material that blocked his scanner. Frustrated, he started looking for an access panel, but faint noises from outside alerted him that his spying was over.
He snapped shut his scanner and stowed it in his leg pocket along with the circuit boards. Running down the ramp, he heard a hangar door opening at the far end beyond the aircab. Caesar ducked into cover just in time. The Salukan visitors were being escorted by Harva Opie himself, a wrinkled old geezer rolling around in a life support box. Massive guards in full armor and helmets clumped along in the rear.
Opie noticed the missing sentries first. He snapped out orders in a voice like a rapid-shot rifle. Caesar edged farther back, working his way through the piles and stacks of supplies. He wanted to be out of here and sitting in a new hidey hole before the whole place got combed. It wouldn't be long before they discovered his tampering with the ship.
But depending on the quality of their surveillance, which looked poor, they wouldn't necessarily know who or what they were looking for: an intruder or a saboteur from their own ranks.
He was sliding his shoulder along the wall, easing slowly in an effort to be quiet, when his arm went through the concrete.
For a moment he thought his brain had snapped. Then he realized that a narrow, door-sized section of the wall was really a holo designed to disguise a service access. Caesar crawled through the holo and curled around, finding himself staring at the same illusion from the inside. He stuck his hand back through just to reassure himself that he wasn't hallucinating, then grinned. Cute trick.
Stowing his Maxell, he swung himself into a ladder well, and started down the rungs. He had a lot of building to search, if he was going to find 41. But before he got started on that, he wanted to call Kelly.
He descended a couple of levels, then followed the service tunnel for about fifty meters before he found an auxiliary closet. Closed in the cramped space with its power coils hanging all over the walls, Caesar found that the proximity to so much energy made his teeth itch from the vibrations. But as long as a service robot didn't stop by to jack in for a drink, he was fine for the moment.
Wiping his face, he activated his comm. "Caesar to Kelly. Come in, boss. I got big news. Over."
Nothing. Not even static. Frowning at the power coils, Caesar wondered if they were causing interference. He switched frequency.
"Caesar to ship. Caesar to ship. Come in, Siggie-boy. I need to talk to somebody."
This time he got static, but no reply. Caesar dropped his arm, feeling suddenly weary.
"Damn!" he said aloud.
He figured the force wall was cutting him off. That meant he was totally on his own. Being a hero was no fun when it looked like you stood a good chance of getting your butt burned off all by yourself.
Still, he was here, and he had a job to do. He might as well get started looking for 41.
"And if you're not here, bean-pole," he muttered, "I'm gonna be real put out."
Left behind on Cilea Street, Phila was busy trying to get Siggerson to teleport her to Opie's villa when a narrow search beam spotlighted her. Whipping out her pistol, she snarled a curse and ran for it, but the search beam followed, catching her again and again in its white light no matter how many times she scuttled into cover.
The figures who had been lounging earlier in some of the doorways along the street now emerged. No one fired at her, but she found herself cut off from both directions. Phila doubled back and ran at the nearest empty doorway. She hit the locked door with a thud, shot out its lock, and kicked it open, spinning as she went in to avoid any shots from inside.
None came. She found herself in a grubby hallway that dead-ended beneath a spiralled metal staircase. The place stank of processed fish cubes, weird spices, and incense. There was nowhere to take cover. Her only hope was to make it to the roof.
She started up, her boots ringing on the steps, and cut off the magnetic field in her counterweights to take advantage of the light gravity. Around her, the metal walls were dotted with sealed round hatchways, spaced approximately five meters apart. Apartment doors, sealed electronically and fitted with sensor grids. There was no way she could shoot her way into one, and even if she managed it there would be no exit on the other side.
Someone kicked his way inside below her. Phila whirled and fired, aiming over the banister. She saw her shot fling her pursuer back, momentarily wedging the door shut. The stench of alien death rolled upward.
Phila hurried on, gasping now and using the banister to pull herself along. She could hear others breaking inside. She had little time left.
"Phila to Sabre," she said breathlessly. "Siggerson, I need teleport now. Get me out of here!"
No answer. She cursed him in her native language, knowing he must be having trouble or he'd be right on top of her calls.
One more turn . . . five more steps . . . and no exit out.
She stopped, staring at the dead end before her. For a moment her mind went blank and she was afraid. She didn't want to die. That was why she'd left her homeworld and taken combat training. If she was good enough and fast enough and tough enough, she couldn't die. But now she was cornered, with no way out, and her pursuers coming closer with each passing second. She knew she'd been lying to herself all these years. Death could happen to her, if she let it.
Think, dammit! Do something.
She calmed down, almost as though she could hear Kelly's incisive voice telling her what to do. Up here at the top of the stairs she made a difficult target. She unslung her launcher and jacked in a miniature plasma missile. When Caesar first showed her this ammo, she had been afraid of it; the missiles contained an awful lot of firepower. In an enclosed space like this, she could crisp herself along with her enemies.
But she had her force shield and her armor. She boosted the shield to maximum, wincing as a shot ricocheted near her and went wide. The stubby launcher was lightweight in her arms. She flipped up the scope and watched its sensors track her opponents. The charge buildup came up to the ready line.
Someone was shouting at her, but she ignored the command to surrender. At the last possible moment, just as they charged the stairs, she stood up and leaned over the banister into the center of the spiral. She was a plain target in that moment, but before anyone could take aim, she fired, aware that the whole building was probably going to come down.
They yelled, but the scream of the missile overrode their shouting. A shot hit her force shield and the squawl of friction made her ears ring. She found herself holding her breath.
The missile hit, and with an engulfing roar the whole world exploded. The staircase lurched beneath her, and Phila made a desperate grab to hold on as flames boiled straight up from the bottom of the stairwell to the ceiling and mushroomed out. The contained energy swelled, making her cry out from the pressure.
Then the roof blew off and the walls toppled as though shoved outward. The concussion sucked her up and slammed her down. She found herself falling through a rain of chunky
debris, tumbling too fast to stop herself, unable to see in the blaze of fire, her ears deafened by the blast. At last she hit bottom, and the impact was so hard, the jolt so violent, that her whole body seemed to snap and shatter. Her throat hurt as though she had screamed, but she could hear nothing. There was one swift impression of overwhelming pain and heat. Then she blacked out and knew nothing more.
The tug of the wind awakened her. Her eyes blinked open and she found herself staring up into the night sky. For a moment there were only the stars spangled in bright, unfamiliar clusters, then memory returned to her.
She was very cold. The wind tore at her hair, whipping it back and forth into her face. That puzzled her until she realized her force shield was gone, burned out no doubt by the strain of protecting her from the rubble she now lay in. But she was alive.
That made her smile. Caesar wasn't the only idiot on the squad who could pull damn fool stunts and live to tell about it. She might be in pieces, but she was still alive. Those cosquenti chiarsi hadn't gotten her.
Feeling about, she discovered that she was mostly buried, but by light rubble. A section of wall lay tented above her legs; it had protected her from the worst of the debris. Slowly, wincing at the pain movement caused, she edged herself free and at last crouched shakily atop the wreckage.
Still dark, the street seemed odd now with a building gone. Phila ignored the few onlookers who had crept up to the edges to stare. The destruction she had wrought awed her. She wondered how many lives she'd taken, how many people had been in those sealed living cubicles, thinking themselves safe for the night.
It was entirely silent, eeriely so. She stood up, slid on the shifting rubble, and crouched down again. She hadn't heard the stones shift.
Bringing her hand up, she snapped her fingers. No sound. She put her hand close to her ear and snapped her fingers again. Nothing. She was deaf.
Not to be, after the fury of that blast, would have been a miracle bigger than being alive.
She still had her airpack and nostril plug, although it had become dislodged and hung uselessly against her cheek. She fitted it back in and drew several quick breaths, trying to stem the panic rising within her.
Come on, Mohatsa. Be tough, she told herself. Her hearing might come back. It might be fixable. She had to think about getting out of here while everyone was too stunned to stop her.
But how was she going to get around Mcthanus without her hearing?
She could worry about that later. Right now she had to move.
Her pistol was gone, and so was the launcher. She didn't waste time hunting for them. She checked her belt for the important thing, which was her scanner with its recording of the Salukan arms deal. Still in place. Relieved, she drew her prong and flicked open all three blades. She started making her way stiffly and slowly across the expanse of rubble. Her leg was bleeding, but she hadn't felt any pain from the wound yet. She hoped she didn't until she found a place to hole up.
Skirting the area where the fire still raged, she saw black­ened, battered faces glance her way. No one made a move toward her. Her pursuers were dead; the crowd didn't know to blame her for the destruction.
She saw people starting to pull the injured out, not to help them but to loot their bodies of clothing and databands. She staggered, saw a youth come at her, and brandished her prong. He backed off, his mouth moving in what was probably an insult.
Her head felt too heavy. Depth perception was funny. She had trouble keeping her balance and figured it was concussion. When she touched the sides of her head, she found that her ears were bleeding.
Fumbling, -she set the pulse code on her wristband for one constant may day signal.
Siggerson would come back as soon as he could. He'd pick up her mayday call. He'd locate her and teleport her out. All she had to do in the meantime was find a place to hide.
A glowing image caught her peripheral vision. She ducked
instinctively, rolling herself up against the base of a building. Talons missed her by scant centimeters. Looking up, she saw a hunter arc up on a wind current, circle, and dive again. Remembering Kelly's warning, she forced herself not to look directly at its multifaceted eyes alight with such beautiful colors. But just the same, a murmur of music touched her mind.
It was as though she could hear again. She came up on her feet, aware of the danger, but unable to stop the tide of longing that overwhelmed her. She reached out to the thing hovering gracefully before her.
Bursts of color exploded in her mind. The music swelled in volume—weird, piping music that ensnared her mind. She walked toward the creature, her prong hand slack at her side, the weapon dangling from her fingers.
The hunter floated, its wings unfurled and so transparent she could see through them. It waited for her to come to it. When she was close enough, she saw the hooked talons slash at her. But something invisible snatched her back. She struggled, wanting to go to the hunter, wanting to listen to it forever, but her invisible bonds only tightened until she stood cocooned with her arms trapped at her sides.
The hunter's head swiveled. It gave an angry flap of its wings and dived forward, but a plasma beam caught it dead center. With a scream that echoed in Phila's head, the hunter fell to the street. A terrible stench of slagged flesh filled the air, gagging her. The bonds upon her mind fell away, and she realized how close she had come to dying from the poison of that thing.
Able to move only her head, she looked around, trying to see who had rescued her. She saw two meres, one a human woman twice her size; the other a reptilian type of species she did not recognize. The woman held a small, cuboid device in her hand. Phila realized it was a control for a shadow net. That's what had rescued her and trapped her.
Smiling, the woman approached her and spoke. Phila watched her lips move, and in despair Phila made out only two words: Harva Opie. For her, the game was over.
Within Opie's headquarters, Taft escorted Kelly from the greenhouse with its muted red light and overabundant insect life. The sterile corridor, wide and well lit, was a relief.
Taft took him to a scanner booth where a technician with a shaved head and metal band across where his eyes should have been operated the equipment by plugging metal fingertips directly into the control panel. On the screen Kelly saw his body graphed from every possible angle, sliced and scanned all the way down to tracking his blood flow. They located his translator and the microscopic receiver both implanted in his left mastoid bone. The receiver allowed him to accept coded messages straight, with decoding provided by his own trans­lator. He had always hated having it, hated using it, hated being even this close to augmentation of any kind.
"Primitive," said the technician. "No bio-ware installation. Receptor function only."
"Continue," said Taft.
The layers of Kelly's skin were analyzed, and the top epidermal layer was scrubbed off. A mist spray of anesthetic took the sting away. Increasingly resentful of this examination, Kelly was surprised by that minute kindness.
"Transponder in left forearm," said the technician.
"Remove it," said Taft.
The technician wasn't as skilled as Beaulieu. Removal hurt, even with the application of a plug and wound sealant. The technician's metal hand made Kelly's skin crawl with every touch.
"Examination concluded."
Taft stood there a moment, the data screens flickering around him as their readouts flashed by in a blur impossible for Kelly to read. When Taft finished his review, he glanced at Kelly. Slowly his red eyes focused and shifted in a reflection of how long it took him to come off the interface.
"You could take wiring now," he said. "Tapo has started the necessary nerve damage."
"No," said Kelly through his teeth, trying to hide how much his undamaged nerves were jumping.
"Insufficient preparation," said the technician.
"Shut up!" shouted Taft.
The technician shrank against the wall. Taft snorted, rum­bling to himself for a moment. Then he smiled and released Kelly from the scanner booth. He pointed at a storage locker.
"Clothes in there."
Kelly obeyed, glad to have something on. He found a pair of coveralls long enough to fit and some shoes of soft cloth. When he finished dressing and turned around, Taft pounced on him, slamming him into the wall and pinning him there long enough to slip a collar around Kelly's throat.
The collar was made of a metal tube, very cold against Kelly's skin. It was snug enough that he could feel his carotid pulsing rapidly against it. Taft stepped away, and Kelly moved away from the wall. His fingers explored the collar gingerly. There was no need to explain what it was for.
But Taft did so anyway. "A restraint collar. One push of this," he pointed to a device on his belt, "and poof. Your head blows off."
Kelly looked at him without a word. He swallowed, and his Adam's apple bumped against the tight collar. Whatever was on his face evidently pleased Taft, who laughed and pointed at the door.
"Out," he said.
Kelly obeyed.
When Taft followed him into the corridor, Kelly said, "Now do I get to see 41?"
Taft's good humor vanished. He growled deep in his throat like an animal. His eyes shifted, and for a moment he seemed not to comprehend Kelly's question. Then he blinked and glared at Kelly. "41. Always 41! He is not so special, this half-breed. He is not very smart, and he is not as strong as us. Most of the army is now borged. We are the future of mercenaries across the galaxy. We are the leading edge of technology. We are the victors!"
"Maybe," said Kelly.
Taft punched him in the stomach, lifting him off his feet and driving him into the corridor wall. The world buckled around
Kelly. For a moment all he could comprehend was the hot agony in his gut and the choking need to vomit. He mastered both, and slowly straightened up.
"Your time is over," said Taft. "You StarHawks will have to adapt to the new technology or be left behind. Right now, you can't beat us. No one can. That's why we are in such high demand. Opie can get any price he wants. But you and 41 are the past. You are finished. Come now and see what is left of your friend."
"Opie promised me he was still alive," said Kelly in alarm.
Taft laughed, and it was wild, manic laughter. "Opie is old," he said. "No matter what he thinks, he is no longer in charge. Come and see."
They passed through a doorway at the end of the corridor into the training facilities. Moving along a metal catwalk, Kelly could look down into gunnery practice slots, hand-to-hand combat drills, weight lifting rooms, saunas, a null-gravity gym where soldiers were being drilled in acrobatic maneuvers, kylegi courts where opponents in face masks and torso shields scrambled for the goal, lap tracks set at different gravity levels, huge water tanks for scuba drills, simulation rooms, and more. It reminded Kelly of his Academy days, when he spent fifty percent of his time in facilities like these, being pummeled, bruised, jogged, flipped, and honed into a fighter.
The only difference was that when these trainees paused to rest, they walked puffing and swearing to a wall jack and plugged themselves in for a systems check of heart rate, respiratory rate, lactic acid buildup, circulatory pooling, bionic pulley scans, interfacing energy spikes, and torn circuitry. Half the soldiers in the gunnery practice slots weren't holding weapons; their hands were weapons.
Kelly remembered the mission when his squad was up against the alien Visci and their robot army. Dealing with those
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formidable warbots had been bad enough; these cyborgs were even scarier. His gaze moved constantly, making quick obser­vations of as much as he could while Taft prodded him along. Taft was right about Hawk training having to upgrade itself in order to compete. A priority step was to adjust the Hawks to expect any man or woman they encountered on a hostile level to swivel a hand or arm into a weapon, to have eyes that were long-range scanners, ears that were recording devices. To be ready in hand-to-hand combat for augmented strength and to know how to handle it. As long as a Hawk could be surprised, that Hawk was at a disadvantage.
"You have a good operation here," said Kelly honestly.
Taft grinned and placed a fresh drug patch behind his ear. "Want one?"
Kelly stiffened. "No."
"Don't look at me that way, Kelly. I can fit you with a patch whether you want it or not."
Quickly Kelly dragged his gaze down, wanting to cause no offense. He tried to keep himself loose, but his muscles cramped up. His breath came fast and shallow in his throat.
"Wister," said Taft, using a schoolboy insult. "Keep walk­ing."
Kelly obeyed, easing out his breath. He worried about Taft slapping a drug patch on the back of his neck, right where the stuff could go straight into his brainstem and give him a massive hit.
As long as I remain afraid, thought Kelly, wiping the sweat off his brow, / am too vulnerable. I can't be afield commander like this.
They came to the end of the catwalk, passed through a locked bulkhead door, and entered a corridor marked by regularly spaced doors on either side. The doors had windows. Taft paused by one and gestured for Kelly to look inside.
41 must be in one of these rooms.
Barely able to contain his anticipation, Kelly stepped up to the window and peered inside.
The bare concrete cubicle had no furnishings of any kind. A spigot protruded from the wall opposite the door, and a drain
had been sunk into the center of the floor. The inmates crouched or sprawled upon the floor. They were naked, dirty, and human. All of them were missing at least one limb or more. The stumps looked swollen and red as though infected. Wires, knotted and sealed off, dangled from them in prepara­tion for the artificial limbs that would replace the originals. Their faces were blank, devoid of any spark of intelligence, as though their minds had been wiped. Numerals had been marked upon their shaven heads in garish pink.
Kelly drew back, repulsed by the sight. He glared at Taft, who was watching him closely, red eyes alight with glee.
"They'll be fitted as soon as the parts shipment arrives," said Taft. "They're subs, that's all. Not worth much beyond shock troops."
"Subs?" said Kelly, trying to keep his outrage under control. "Explain."
"Subgrade. They don't have much upstairs to begin with. Most of them have been wiped, or rehabilitation conditioning burned out their minds. They're from labor camps, slaver rejects, the back streets. We grade them on physical agility and stamina, and outfit them. Our rejects are sold to medical researchers."
"No waste," muttered Kelly.
Taft laughed. "None. It's Harva Opie's law. 41 is in one of these cells. Go ahead and look for him."
Kelly gritted his teeth. He knew that he couldn't hide his feelings, and he knew Taft was feeding on his revulsion the way bullies feed on fear. More than anything he wanted to say he'd had enough of the freak show. He no longer believed 41 was here. He wasn't sure he believed 41 was even alive. And most of all, he didn't want to find 41 in one of these cells, mutilated and mindless.
Kelly's fists- clenched at his sides. He swallowed hard, promising himself that if it had happened to his friend, he would kill 41 and put him out of his misery.
Slowly he went from door to door, each time finding it harder to look through the window at the grotesque sights which awaited him. Some of the victims were in the throes of
metal rejection. They were strapped down, thrashing in un­bearable agony. Others saw his face at the window and ran to the door, their mouths stretched with screams, their eyes mad. One sat in a corner, striking himself again and again in the face with his metal fist. His features were smashed and bloody. No one apparently monitored these cells closely enough to stop him, or cared.
If Kelly had not already made up his mind before on the moral question of how far mankind could change itself, the sights forced upon him now showed him that he had not even begun to imagine the evil that could be done in the name of evolution. He could say that bionic prosthesis was acceptable for broken men like Commodore West. It kept them from being entirely crippled. It allowed them to continue as useful, functioning members of society. He could say that augmenta­tion for certain jobs and pay rates was both foolish and distasteful. He could say that augmentation for the purpose of becoming physically superior to others of one's species, for the purpose of domination and subjection, was completely wrong. But to do this to others, to force them to undergo transforma­tion into something neither living nor machine, was pure evil.
His horror could find no stronger word to describe it.
At the last cell, he glanced in and away, his jaw working with the effort to control his fury. He faced Thaft and saw the mockery in the cyborg's face.
Somehow Kelly kept his voice even as he said, "41 isn't here."
"No. Disappointing. I hoped he would be." Taft took Kelly through another locked bulkhead door.
Kelly saw more cubicle doors, another den of horrors waiting for him. His heart sank.
Taft said, "These are adjusting better to the process."
For an instant Kelly considered refusing to look further, but he knew Taft was trying to manipulate him into giving up on seeing 41. Setting his jaw, Kelly went to the first window.
These cells had chairs. He saw a Salukan and his heart quickened, but when the man turned his narrow, shaven skull around to exhibit empty eye sockets and a metal torso, Kelly
saw that it was not 41. His fingers stopped digging into the window frame. He pushed himself to the next cubicle.
The occupants were on their feet, milling around without purpose. Kelly started to go on, then hesitated. The occupants shifted to one side, and Kelly glimpsed one individual seated on the floor in the opposite corner. A lean man with long blond hair falling to his shoulders. A man half-clothed, unlike the others who were entirely naked.
"41," mouthed Kelly. He pressed nearer to the glass, forgetting everything except the sight of his friend.
The sloppy pink numerals had been printed across 41's forehead. Smaller, more precise specifications were written diagonally across his right cheekbone. His right arm and chest also exhibited sectional markings. Kelly sucked in his breath. They hadn't started chopping on 41 yet. He was still whole, at least in body. Kelly willed him to glance up, wanting to read how much cognizance still gleamed in those yellow eyes, but 41 stared at the floor. He did not move, even when some of the others jostled him.
Without warning Taft pulled Kelly away from the window and slung him against the opposite wall. Kelly thudded into it with a grunt of pain. He straightened up fast and gathered himself to strike back. Then the smile on Taft's face brought Kelly to his senses. He couldn't take this man in a fight. He hadn't a prayer.
When Taft saw that Kelly wouldn't retaliate, his smile faded to a scowl. "Coward."
Kelly shrugged. "So which cubicle is mine? Who's going to shave my head and put little pink numbers all over me?"
Taft glared at him a long while, as though he did not know how to answer. "Not yet," he said at last.
"Opie said he was going to sell me," said Kelly, seeking a weak spot of any kind. "But if you really run this place, then you have other plans for me. Am I going to be borged along with 41?"
"Maybe." Taft tapped his drug patch as though it was already wearing off. "You'll watch it happen to him first."
"Yes, you've threatened that already. When does it hap­pen?"
"You aren't so brave, Kelly. You talk bigger than you are."
At the far end of the corridor, another mercenary came into sight. A Boxcan, he was younger than Taft but almost as big. Like Taft, he wore a communications band with the wire going up into his ear. But unlike Taft, he was dressed in half armor and looked fresh enough to tackle any job.
"Harjer," said Taft, "take this prisoner to Holding Pen 11. Wait for Opie's instructions."
Harjer blinked and tilted his head to scan Kelly closely with his left eye. "Not borged," he said in mere-speak.
Taft grunted.
"We got some others. With them?"
Taft's head jerked left. He appeared to be listening to something Kelly could not hear. His eyes lost focus, and Kelly guessed he was out on the interface somewhere. If Harjer had not been standing right there, Kelly could have taken Taft in that moment. Kelly clenched his fists in frustration.
When Taft went on standing there, frozen and far away, Harjer grunted to himself and poked Kelly. He pointed and Kelly started walking back the way he and Taft had come. Kelly glanced at Harjer's eyes. They were a clear brass-green. Either he wasn't having rejection problems, or he was on one of the newer non-addictive drugs that had fewer side effects than tapo. Exasperated, Kelly tried to figure out a way to jump this young giant. He had no intention of letting himself be stuffed tamely into a cell.
A glimmer of an idea came to him. It was a pretty feeble idea; in fact, considering that Harjer had one of those little control boxes that could detonate Kelly's restraint collar, it was an impossible idea. But it was the only one Kelly had. He waited until they were almost back to the gym area before he rubbed his face and staggered.
He kept it small, not wanting to overdo it, and he made sure he staggered in the direction of the wall, not toward Harjer. The Boxcan said nothing, but Kelly felt his glance.
Drawing in a deep, audible breath, Kelly walked a few steps
more then said with studied casualness, "You carrying any tapo?"
"No."
Nodding, Kelly rubbed his arms. He slowed down and glanced into one of the cubicles. That one poor creature was still bashing himself with his own fist. "Taft's on it, isn't he?"
Harjer frowned, unconsciously slowing down to match Kelly's pace. "He's an old borg. They got some problems. Me? None at all." He thumped his abdomen proudly. "Not one bit of metal. Everything state-of-the-art carbonite. I've even got Rimj-Kelig liquid oil sac joints. Nothing can wear out. Nothing for the organics to reject. I don't even need DNA adaptation injections to go into the interface."
Everything he said chilled Kelly to the marrow. Kelly rubbed his face again, pretending to tweak. "Yeah, great," he said. "Just thought you might have some tapo."
Harjer's right hand slapped into the center of Kelly's chest and slammed him backward into the wall. "Look, junk-head, I don't need it. I don't got it. You understand?"
"Completely," said Kelly.
He grabbed Harjer's wrist and ripped away the comm wire running up Harjer's arm. Blood spurted from Harjer's ear. He howled and listed to one side, momentarily distracted. Kelly had already chosen his target spots, hoping they were vulner­able points. Bracing his back against the wall, he executed a hard, one-two boxer kick at Harjer's kneecaps. The state-of-the-art Rimj-Kelig joints exploded, and Harjer went down.
The look of astonishment on the mere's face told of his inexperience. He struggled to draw his sidearm, but Kelly kicked it from his hand. Fury darkened Harjer's face. He swiveled his left wrist in a maneuver that should have been impossible, and Kelly heard the faint whine of a plasma charge buildup.
Without stopping to think, Kelly stepped in close, getting inside the shot that slagged the corner off a cell door. He kicked again, aiming at breaking the vulnerable wrist joint. But his good luck ran out about then. Harjer's other hand grabbed
Kelly's ankle and pulled him down. Kelly twisted in an effort to get free, but a shove sent him sprawling to the floor.
Harjer hit him under the ribs with a blow that knocked the wind from his lungs and made stars dance in front of his eyes. Wheezing, Kelly scrabbled to one side, trying to get away from that punishing fist. Harjer's gun hand aimed at him, point-blank. Kelly grabbed it in desperation.
The plasma bolt scorched past his ear in a near miss. Harjer bellowed in rage, and hit Kelly harder. The air bubbled and choked in Kelly's lungs. His strength was going. But he clung to the gun hand and twisted it sharply, using its swivel action to close the weapon. Harjer resisted, and Kelly smelled circuits burning in overload. He gave it one final twist to jam it completely and rolled to miss Harjer's next punch.
Harjer squirmed onto his stomach and lunged, grabbing Kelly's sleeve. The tough cloth ripped, and Kelly kicked free. Harjer reached for his belt and pushed the detonator.
Kelly had one split-second of absolute terror. But his collar didn't blow off his head. Instead, it poured an electrical shock through his body.
Jolted by the current, Kelly arched backward in pain, his hands clawing at the collar. Then the charge ended, and Kelly collapsed like folded clothing. He lay there, gasping for breath, his thoughts jittering without coherence, his nerves raw.
Slowly he pulled himself together. Burning uppermost in his mind was the realization that he was alive. Taft had lied about what the restraint collar did. At that moment Kelly longed to get his own hands around Taft's throat.
Coughing, he sat up and looked at Harjer. The downed Boxcan was still pushing the detonator furiously, but it was plain that the charge had an automatic cut-off after a certain number of seconds. Probably these collars had been designed for early cyborgs who were unreliable; the collars were to manage, not kill.
Kelly lurched to his feet, gulping in air and clutching his side.
He'd made a mess of the job. Harjer was down but far from out. Although he couldn't walk, the cyborg could drag himself
along the corridor until he reached a wall comm or an alarm. Kelly had scant minutes, maybe only seconds to get to 41.
He reached the junction and hesitated, checking ahead to make sure Taft had gone. A percussion shot pinged just centimeters from Kelly's head. He cringed back, and took stock of the situation.
Trapped from both directions.
Damn Taft! Why couldn't he have gone on? Frustration burned in Kelly. If he just had something to shoot back with.
Behind him the sound of approaching footsteps and a single shot made Kelly whirl around. He felt exposed, vulnerable. He saw a stocky, red-haired figure step over Harjer. Kelly blinked, unable to believe it was Caesar coming toward him. Caesar grinned wide.
Kelly didn't know how in the world Caesar had managed to get in here, but he was the most welcome sight Kelly could have imagined. He grinned back, then gestured a warning. Caesar dodged toward the concrete wall. Another shot from Taft ricocheted and went wide.
"Damned close!" whispered Caesar. He cut his force shield a moment to open a leg pocket and toss Kelly a small cough-shot B7 Gert pistol.
As a weapon, it was strictly small time. A lot of ships captains kept it in their personal safes in case of emergency, for its soft bullets could not pierce a bulkhead or an inner hull. Kelly palmed it, grateful to have something, but not sure what it could do against Taft.
Kelly peered cautiously through the doorway and squeezed off a shot, aiming at Taft's head. The little distinctive cough was all the sound the pistol made. It barely recoiled in Kelly's hand. Smooth, but not quite long enough in range. The bullet hit one of the jacks on Taft's bare chest, striking a spark.
Taft staggered back, shouting in surprise.
"Boss!" whispered Caesar. "Hey—"
"Damn," said Kelly, not listening. "He'll put out a warning now."
"Boss, this isn't a defensible position. Let's get out of here."
"Can't," said Kelly. "41 is about six doors down."
"What?" Caesar risked a look. "Oh, hell. It's Redeye himself. Wish I still had my launcher."
Kelly frowned. "What have you got? We need to eliminate him as fast as possible."
"Yo, I hear that." Caesar produced one of his beloved gel bombs and began kneading the center to activate the detonator. "Get ready to hit the floor . . . just about . . . now!"
He threw the bomb, and together he and Kelly flattened themselves. The explosion rocked the corridor, and flame belched right up to the bulkhead door. The concussion buckled the metal frame of the bulkhead, but it reached no farther.
Ears ringing, Kelly gave his head a shake and wished he hadn't. The noise had brought back his headache. He pushed himself onto his feet and ducked low through the doorway into black smoke that robbed him of breath and teared his eyes.
"Let me." Caesar, safe in his force shield, pushed ahead of Kelly.
"Where is he?" asked Kelly, trying to see. Already the smoke was dissipating enough to increase visibility to a couple of meters. Not far enough. Kelly's nerves were tensed up; he expected Taft to come leaping at him any moment.
"Gone," said Caesar. "I see some blood smears, but I'd rather have found a few arms and legs lying around."
Kelly looked up with a frown. After what he'd witnessed on Taft's tour, Caesar's comment was in poor taste. But Taft was too dangerous an opponent to be running around unsecured.
"He'll have sounded the alarm by now," said Kelly. "Let's hustle this."
He found the cell doors blackened but undamaged by the blast. The occupants of 41's cell were huddled on the floor, their eyes wild with fear. Kelly aimed his weapon at the lock, but Caesar nudged him.
"Let me do it. That popgun of yours can't short these circuit locks worth spit."
Kelly put his back to the wall, keeping a sharp watch while Caesar fitted his weapon muzzle to the lock panel and shot it out. The door was designed to slide into a wall recess. The shorted out circuits, however, rendered its automatic function
useless. Caesar heaved it sideways, and Kelly ducked through.
"41!" he said, while the cellmates scattered out of his way. "It's me, Kelly. We've come to get you out of here."
41 sat in the corner as before. He still stared at the floor, even when Kelly knelt beside him and touched his shoulder. Alarmed, Kelly shook him, and when that got no response, he put his hand under 41 's chin and forced the man to look at him.
41 "s yellow eyes stared at him without recognition. He was withdrawn, almost catatonic. Kelly heaved him up onto his feet, and was alarmed by how thin 41 had become. 41's skin had a sickly yellow pallor. Half-healed welts and burns showed some of what he'd been through.
"Come on, 41," Kelly said, aware that if he couldn't get 41 to move on his own volition they'd never get out. "You've got to walk. 41, listen to me. This is our one chance to escape. Otherwise Taft will come back to kill all of us. Come on!"
Whether 41 understood him or not, he did start shuffling along. He was too slow, much too slow, but Kelly could not get him to go faster.
One of the other inmates slipped past Caesar and ran outside. The others bolted after him in a panic.
"Yusus, boss," said Caesar, blinking. "This place is a real chamber of horrors. You want me to let the other poor devils out?"
Precious minutes were racing by. They hadn't even reached the door yet. Kelly tightened his grip on 41's arm.
"Yes, go ahead," he said. "But watch your charge reserves. Don't squander it."
Caesar nodded but he was frowning at 41. "Looks like he's been marked for the butcher shop. Hey, 41! Long time no see."
"He doesn't know us," said Kelly.
But 41 lifted his head slightly and looked at Caesar. A corner of his mouth curled and he tried to shuffle faster.
Caesar laughed. "Did you see that? Hey, boss, he's finally believing we're real."
Tears of relief stung Kelly's eyes. 41 wasn't as far gone as he'd feared. He was coming back, coming out of whatever remote corner of his mind he'd taken refuge in.
"We've got to get off this main corridor," said Kelly. "You studied the layout of this place. Where—"
"Just leave it to me," said Caesar, hooking his shoulder under 41 's other arm. "I've been prowling around quite a while. Boss, you'll never believe what I found. The most incredible ship—Salukan, I think—but it's designed for cyborg piloting."
Kelly looked at him. "What?"
"Yeah, you ought to see her. A real beauty. Siggie would cut off both arms for the chance to fly her. I got everything on my scanner."
Pride filled Kelly. He shot Caesar a glance of approval. "Good work. I want to see those recordings."
"Oh, and I've left bombs set on delayed detonation here and there for a little farewell present, but—"
"Beaulieu's in here someplace too," said Kelly. "Let's find her before you set off the fireworks."
"She's probably on the lower levels. That's where the holding pens for sale items are kept. What about your wristband?"
"Gone," said Kelly.
"Not much good anyway, as long as the force wall is up around this place. We can't call out, and we sure can't teleport out as long as it's up."
"A lot to do," said Kelly wearily.
" Yo. And 41 is awfully heavy for a bag of bones. Come on, you big lux! Pick up your feet!"
They went slowly past the dead Harjer. The corridor seemed endless. Kelly glanced ahead where he could hear shouting and the sounds of running feet. "The gym area's been alerted. Caesar, we're heading right toward them."
Caesar was counting under his breath. "... sixty-one, sixty-two . . ." He stepped away, leaving Kelly to support 41 alone, and put his shoulder to the wall.
To Kelly's complete surprise a narrow section of what looked like solid concrete wavered, and Caesar stepped half­way through it.
"Service tunnels," he said with a grin at the look on Kelly's
face. "Good old service tunnels. What would we do without 'em? Great holos, don't you think?"
Speechless, Kelly pushed 41 through and crowded behind him into the narrow tunnel. The only light came from a narrow strip of illumination running along the floor. Kelly's eyes adjusted. He let Caesar take the lead and brought up the rear himself, keeping one hand on 41's back.
A few steps along, 41 made a muffled sound and collapsed. Kelly caught him and eased him to the floor.
"Caesar, wait!" he called softly.
Caesar came back and crouched down while Kelly propped 41 up against the wall. 41 gazed at Kelly a moment with dull eyes, then he blinked and seemed to pull himself together.
"Kelly," he whispered.
Kelly gripped his hand very hard. "What's the matter? Did you think we wouldn't get you out of this?"
41's mouth worked a moment, then his whole face scrunched up and tears welled in his eyes. He pressed Kelly's hand to his forehead, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Kelly hesitated a moment in sheer surprise at seeing 41 break down, then he put his arm around 41 and held him, emotions of his own choking his throat.
Caesar's eyes met Kelly's over 41 's bowed head, and there was no need to voice what both of them were thinking. Whatever those damned cyborgs had put 41 through to reduce him to this, they were going to pay for it.
Kelly's arm tightened on 41. "Can you go on?" he asked gently. "We've got to keep moving."
41 nodded and lifted his head. Drawing away, he rubbed his face, smearing the pink numerals across his cheeks. Kelly helped him up, and they followed Caesar.
They were a long way from being out of this, but Kelly's spirits lifted. 41 was alive. They hadn't come all this way and risked so much for nothing. Kelly himself had been stressed and tempted, even offered tapo, and he'd resisted. His self-confidence came roaring back. He was glad Beaulieu had been wrong about him able to handle this challenge.
Caesar led them through a bewildering maze of tunnels and
passageways. He told them when to stop and wait in silence, holding their breaths while the cadenced sound of booted feet went by. He told them when to hurry. He shooed them out into main corridors where they hurried as fast as 41 could hobble, their nerves tense in fear of discovery, before ducking into the next service tunnel available.
Opie didn't have surveillance cams on his corridors. But then, he probably had never needed them before. Kelly wondered if this was the first time anyone had actually managed to break into his headquarters.
Then without warning Caesar stopped. He stood there in the gloom, holding his scanner in his hand. .
When he stayed put, Kelly frowned and leaned over 41 's shoulder. "What is it?" he whispered. "What's wrong?"
Caesar glanced over his shoulder. "We're here."
The serious way he said it, and the look in his eyes, warned Kelly that something was wrong.
Kelly's grip tightened on 41. "What—"
"Kelly?" said Taft's voice, muffled but unmistakable. The sound of it made 41 flinch back and turn his face to the wall. "Kelly, come out and see what I've got."
Kelly's brows drew together. He glanced again at Caesar, who shook his head helplessly. Caesar lifted the scanner to show Kelly the readout: three blips, two of them on the squad's transponder frequency.
It could only mean Phila had been rounded up off the streets of Methanus City and now stood out there with Beaulieu. Kelly's fists clenched. His optimism plummeted. He had allowed himself to hope too soon, to count on victory before it was really in the bag.
"Phila too," whispered Caesar.
"Kelly, you are on my scanner," said Taft. "Come out and see what I have. Bring 41 with you. You might as well all be together."
At the sound of his name on Taft's lips, 41 tensed under Kelly's hand like a cornered animal. Kelly tightened his grip, afraid that 41 might break away and get himself killed.
"Let me go first," whispered Caesar. "I'm shielded. I stand a better—"
"No," said Kelly, his mind going at light speed. "You don't show up on his scanner, so he doesn't know you're here. I'm going out with 41. You stand ready. You'll have one shot. Make it a good one."
Caesar stared at him in dismay. "Boss, I—"
"You have to do it," said Kelly fiercely.
Caesar nodded. He swallowed, started to speak, then nodded again.
Kelly drew in a breath and forced himself to squeeze past 41 and Caesar. 41 stood where he was and when Kelly reached back for him, 41 shrank away.
"Come on, 41," Kelly said gently. "I'll be with you. We'll make it okay."
41 's eyes were haunted, the pupils wide with naked fear. The kind of fear that lay dormant in every man's soul until awakened by some experience too horrible to endure. Once brought forth, it was not so easily laid to rest again. A few weeks ago if Kelly had seen such terror in 41 's face, he would have turned away, unable and unwilling to accept it. But in the detox hospital, he had faced his own terrors and his own weaknesses. And now he knew a lot more about fear and the shame it brought in its wake than he wanted to.
He reached out again with a gentle hand and grasped 41's wrist. He concentrated on sending his understanding to 41, hoping that 41 had not closed off the empathic threshold as well.
"Taft," whispered 41, his face drawn.
"I know," said Kelly. "I'll be with you."
"Kelly!" said Taft. "Come out, or I will kill these women here and now."
"Coming," called Kelly.
With 41 shuffling after him, Kelly walked through the holo field into a wide, well-lit corridor.
And standing before him was Taft, burned black and blistered on one side, his face twisted with madness and pain. Taft held a weapon trained on Beaulieu, who was supporting a
blood-smeared Phila. Both women's faces brightened momen­tarily at the sight of Kelly and 41. Kelly met their eyes, trying to send them courage.
Then he faced Taft, who wasn't smiling anymore.
Taft's weapon swung around and aimed right at Kelly's midsection. "You," he said angrily, "are dead."
Before Kelly could react, Taft fired.
9
Everything slowed down. Kelly saw Taft's pectoral muscles tighten, saw the spurt of flame from the muzzle of the weapon. He saw Beaulieu's mouth open. She shoved past Phila, but she was an eternity away. Already her grab at Taft's arm was too late. Even as Kelly spun himself out of the line of fire, his brain knew he was too slow. He had cheated death more ways than he could count, but this time it looked certain.
In the past he'd experienced that old clich6 where his life passed in front of his eyes. But right now, there was nothing in his mind but regret—regret that he wasn't finished yet. There were still so many things he wanted to do.
What had he been thinking less than an hour ago? That to be surprised was to be at a disadvantage? Well, Taft had surprised him. Kelly had expected a chance to say something first, to distract Taft while Caesar got into position. But Taft hadn't given him the chance. And in that sense, Taft was smarter.
Then something bumped into Kelly from the right. It was 41, shoving him aside a split second before the bullet struck. Kelly staggered in an effort to catch his balance and dodge, but 41's impetus brought him down. Kelly hit the floor hard
123
enough to bounce, and 41 's weight on top of him made the impact doubly hard.
From overhead he heard the roar of Caesar's Maxell, both muzzles fired simultaneously; one, two, three double rounds slamming into Taft, knocking him back, shattering tissue and muscle and steel.
Careening into the wall, Taft stayed on his feet and even managed to aim his weapon. His face was a mask of maniacal fury. He screamed and fired, but Caesar was still shooting, pumping round after round into Taft, until the giant toppled and fell with a crash to the floor.
By this time Kelly had had enough time to register the fact that he hadn't been hit. 41 still lay on top of him, unmoving. Kelly squirmed out from under him just as Beaulieu reached them. Together they rolled 41 over.
There was a hole in his chest big enough for Kelly to put his fist in. Yellow blood was bubbling up, frothy with air. 41's eyes were open but they stared past Kelly, unseeing.
Kelly gripped 41's bare shoulders, grief coming raw and blinding hot. "No," he whispered. "No."
Beaulieu ripped off her sleeve and wadded it over the wound, pressing down hard with both hands. She glanced at Kelly, and her eyes told him the verdict even before she shook her head.
"The bastards took my medikit," she said. "Even then ..."
Phila and Caesar came up, and Caesar knelt beside Kelly. He stank of burnt ozone and cordite. "I couldn't get a clear shot in time," he said. "I'm sorry, boss. He was too fast."
Kelly just looked at him. It wasn't Caesar's fault, but the words locked up in his throat. He couldn't speak.
41 shuddered in his grip.
"Convulsing from shock," said Beaulieu, struggling to hold her makeshift compression bandage in place. "Phila, what's his pulse? Damn! Kelly, check his pulse."
Despite his grief and worry, Kelly noticed something seemed wrong with Phila. She wasn't talking. She appeared not to hear Beaulieu's order. Kelly pressed his fingers to 41's
throat, high under the jawbone in that slim slot where the artery throbbed.
"Too fast to count," he said. "Wait! It's skipping."
"Heart's failing," said Beaulieu grimly. "Lift him a bit so he can breathe."
With Caesar's help, Kelly lifted 41 and propped him against his knee.
"You didn't have to do it," whispered Kelly, his voice hoarse. Tears ran down his face. Gently he smoothed back 41 's tangled hair and rubbed off the number written on 41's forehead.
In the distance came the low whine of machinery. Caesar stiffened beside Kelly and lifted his pistol. "Uh-oh. Fresh trouble."
41 jerked in another series of convulsions. Kelly put his arm across 41, trying to hold him steady. At that moment it didn't matter if the whole cyborg army was coming down the corridor.
But when he glanced over his shoulder he saw that it was Harva Opie, flanked by two bodyguards in full armor and helmets, force shields blazing around the three of them.
"Taft!" said Opie sharply, but Taft's body did not move.
Kelly tugged on Phila's sleeve to get her attention. She took 41 in her arms, freeing Kelly, who rose to his feet and faced Opie.
"Taft is dead," he said. "And 41 is dying."
Opie's one eye jerked from Taft to 41. Beaulieu ripped off her other sleeve and wadded it over the wound. 41 's blood kept gushing out.
Kelly's throat tried to lock up on him again. He swallowed savagely and glared at Opie. "You've lost them both, if you ever cared," he said. "You'll have to find someone else to captain your army."
Opie's hands tightened on the armrests of his support box, then loosened. His face betrayed no expression at all. "41 doesn't have to die."
"No," said Beaulieu. "Not if I had the facilities of a sophisticated surgical unit and an organ bank—"
"We have the facilities," said Opie. His one eye continued to look at Kelly.
Beaulieu scrambled to her feet. "Let's get to it," she said.
Kelly held up his hand. His mouth was powder dry. He felt mesmerized by Opie's gaze. "You'll borg him," he whispered.
They all looked up at that.
Opie smiled and nodded. "We'll borg him," he said. "And now all of your principles and your fine moral stance against my kind comes down to this one choice, this one decision, Kelly. You can continue to hate cybernetics and all that it can accomplish. Or you can let your friend die."
Caesar got to his feet and faced Kelly. "Bryan, you can't!" he whispered. "Yusus, he'd be just like them!"
Beaulieu's eyes burned into Kelly. "If there's the least chance of saving him—"
"Hell!" said Caesar. "We came here to save him from that, not turn him into one! Better for him to die than be—"
"I ... can't ... do it," said Kelly, turning away from both of them. He lifted his hands in anguish, and let them fall. "I can't let him die."
Caesar's mouth fell open. "Boss!"
"Right," said Beaulieu briskly, shoving Caesar aside. "I need life support, old man, and I need it STAT."
Opie touched a control, and a panel opened at the base of his support box. Beaulieu pulled out a coiled length of cable and two cone-shaped transjectors. Signalling for Phila to lower 41 to the floor and get out of the way, Beaulieu placed one transjector at his head and the other at his feet. She hooked the cable into one of the transjectors and nodded at Opie.
He touched another control, and bled life support power into the transjectors. With a low hum, the support field shimmered over 41.
Beaulieu eyed it critically. "It's very weak."
"It's all I can spare," snapped Opie.
"You!" Beaulieu pointed at one of the bodyguards. "Call that surgical team down here now. We don't have any time to waste."
"It's already coming," said Opie. He glanced at Kelly. "Why don't you all surrender your weapons."
Without a word, Kelly handed over his Gert. He glanced at Caesar, who glared at him in resentment and frustration. Finally Caesar snapped off his force shield and tossed his Maxell pistol to the guard.
"Very wise," said Opie. "You have a well-disciplined squad, Kelly. Congratulations."
Kelly said nothing.
Caesar glared at Opi'e. "Yeah? Who asked you for compli­ments?"
"Considering the fact that your commander is wearing a restraint collar and that I have only to push this button to blow off his head," said Opie coldly, "I think Kelly has shown a considerable amount of courage."
"Thank you, but that bluff doesn't work," said Kelly. "The collar just delivers an electrical charge."
Opie shook his head. "Don't be naive. From the detonators of duty officers, yes. Mine—and Taft's—have a much more lethal range."
Kelly and Caesar exchanged glances, and Kelly wondered why Taft hadn't killed him earlier when he had the chance.
"Now," said Opie. "Go and stand against the wall. All of you."
The other bodyguard moved up, weapon aimed, and herded everyone except Beaulieu over to the wall. He ran a scanner over Caesar and divested him of another weapon, his prong, and two more gel bombs.
"Remove armor," he said.
Caesar glanced at Kelly with a worried frown. Kelly gestured for him to obey. Reluctantly Caesar unsnapped his corselet and leggings.
These were searched, and Caesar's scanner and two circuit boards turned up. Caesar's face went pale. "Please, don't keep those. The pilot and I, uh, are having a little contest to see who can, uh, design the best game for—"
Silence," said the guard. He tossed the circuit boards aside with the other things.
Caesar grimaced at Kelly. "Without them-"
Kelly shook his head, thankful that no one had yet realized Caesar had sabotaged their new secret weapon. If Opie found out, no one of this squad would survive the hour. As long as Kelly could keep them alive, they had a chance. His gaze went to 41, so still and silent. 41, who had saved him yet again. Worry twisted Kelly's insides. They'd come so far, risked so much, gotten so close ... it wasn't supposed to work out like this.
The surgical team arrived. With swift efficiency they trans­ferred 41 into a stasis box, lifted it with a small grav-flat, and took him away. Beaulieu stuck right with him. Kelly feared they would make her stay behind, but Opie let her go.
Caesar said, "What happens to us now?"
Kelly looked at him and at little Phila, who didn't even come to his shoulder. Her dark eyes were darting everywhere, watching everything. She was streaked with dust, part of her hair looked and smelled singed, and her ears had been bleeding. He guessed she'd been blast-deafened. Worry crunched down a little harder on him, but the choice had been made. They'd all volunteered to come here. There was no getting out of it now.
"Boss?" said Caesar. "What happens to us?"
"I heard you." Kelly sighed. "I guess we get sold to Mechtaxlan."
Opie still sat in the center of the corridor. Now he smiled. "Correct. The guards will put you in a holding pen, where you'll wait until I finish arranging the deal." His smile faded, and his expression grew very cold. "But first I must decide how you will pay for Taft."
"Taft was insane," said Kelly sharply. "You must have been aware that he was working behind your back, disobeying your orders, taking over your operation from the inside."
Opie's hands tightened like claws upon his armrests. "I would have done the same thing in his place."
"Maybe. But no matter how much you pay a man or woman, you can't buy their loyalty past a certain point."
"Loyalty," said Opie with a sneer, "such as that which made 41 try to die for you?"
"That's right," said Kelly evenly.
"And you are proud of this sacrifice?"
"No, not proud of it. It has to work both ways. Just as we came in here, risking our necks to get him out."
"Futile gesture," said Opie. "You did all that, only to give him back to me." Opie gestured in the direction of the departed surgical team. "Taft, for all his faults, was useful. Now he's dead. And I have to find a replacement."
"It won't be 41," said Kelly.
"You think he will not be grateful for his life?"
"I think that you still want something from him that he won't give you," said Kelly, frowning. "He never will."
Opie's face twisted with fury. He gestured at the guard. "Get them out of here! Lock them up!"
The guard gestured with his weapon and they marched along, leaving Opie to spin his support box around and head off in the opposite direction. Phila was limping a little. Caesar put his hand on her shoulder in comfort, but his glance was for Kelly.
"Sorry, boss," he said in a low voice. "I know you don't want to hear this, but 41 will be a lucky man if he dies."
Kelly winced and shook his head. He refused to think that way.
"Sooner or later you've got to face it," said Caesar. "If he does make it, he'll be on their side. We'll have to kill him then. I don't want to do that to a fellow Hawk, boss. You follow me?"
Kelly's gaze remained ahead. He felt bleak inside. He wished Caesar would shut up. "Yeah," he said at last. "I follow you."
They were shoved inside a large circular cell, featuring nothing more than a water spigot, a floor drain, and a dim light far above in the ceiling. Kelly listened to the door boom shut, and he figured that for them, the dilemma Caesar had men­tioned would never be faced. Their next stop would be at the executioner's.
On the Sabre, Siggerson paced back and forth between the throbbing engines. The air in here was hot and insufficiently circulated. His coveralls were stuck to his skin with sweat. He wiped his face and went on pacing, counting the minutes down with as much care as he would have used in timing a ship maneuver.
But right now he wasn't running the ship. She was cruising on full automateds, out of range of Methanus, her waver shield making her invisible to the smugglers still searching for her. Emergency repairs had sealed the external hull from within. If Siggerson didn't try any fancy maneuvers and didn't jump into time distort speeds, the patch would hold. The damaged circuits had been rerouted. Most of the coolant leaks had been found and stopped. He had one that was still seeping, but that was under control.
As for his own repairs, he'd clamped his broken wrist into a splint bandage. His hand was swollen, and his arm throbbed clear to the elbow. He could still taste the bitterness of the painkiller on his tongue. It had helped some, but he'd been extremely conservative on the dosage. He didn't dare put himself to sleep.
One minute to go. He stopped pacing and squatted down in the awkward corner where Ouoji had chosen to make her nest. She lay on her side, her fur matted and wet. Two cubs, damp and mewing feebly, squirmed against her. Siggerson saw her side jerk. She lifted her head and he put his hand against her back, just above the root of her tail.
"Easy, girl. I'm right here," he said.
The contractions came in a quick, violent series, pushing out the third cub into Siggerson's waiting hand. He cleaned off the birth sac, gently using his fingertip to rub away the membrane from the cub's tiny mouth and nostrils. He lifted the little ear flaps ever so slightly to allow the fluid to drain, then deposited the cub where Ouoji could reach it. She gave it a couple of rough licks, making it mew, then lowered her head as though in exhaustion.
Siggerson looked at her in dismay. Surely not another one. These three had been born an hour apart with false contractions
in between times and a lot of pain to Ouoji. He wiped his hand on a clean cloth taken from sickbay and shoved the back of his good wrist across his face.
If only he knew what he should be doing for her. He still couldn't believe that all this time he'd thought she was just getting fat. Pregnancy had never occurred to him, and if anyone else had suspected it—especially Beaulieu—why in the five worlds hadn't they said so? There should have been adequate preparations made. Instead, Ouoji lay on some old sickbay towels which she must have filched at some point, in this back corner of the engine room where a man could die of heat exhaustion. There wasn't enough room or enough light or any kind of emergency supplies on hand. He didn't know what to give her for the pain. He'd brought her a dish of water, but she'd refused it.
Her blue eyes seemed to be pleading for him to help her, but he felt helpless and inadequate.
And meanwhile, he'd abandoned the squad on Methanus. All of them were now at Harva Opie's headquarters. He no longer had them on his monitor because of the force wall around Opie's place. He didn't know if they were alive or dead, if they needed him, or what he could do for them. He did know that he needed to get the ship back there and soon. But Ouoji needed him too.
She cried out, jerking with a fresh contraction. Sweating, Siggerson tried to steady her. It was too soon for another cub. But something was coming. After a moment he realized it was the afterbirth. Relief shot through him. The ordeal was over.
"You did it, Ouoji," he said, laughing a little and wiping his face on his sleeve. He touched her head in a brief caress. "It's over. You're a mama."
When and where had she met up with another ouoji lately to cause all this? He shook his head and bunched up the ends of the towels to keep the cubs from squirming too far away from their mother.
This time when he offered Ouoji the dish of water, she drank thirstily, then bumped her head against his hand.
"You're welcome," he said.
She sat up and began cleaning the cubs with more vigor. Siggerson fetched a fresh batch of towels and provided them with a new bed. The three cubs had hairless feet and tails. Their fur looked different than Ouoji's, but he really couldn't determine the color while they were still half wet. As their fur dried, it began to stand up in matted swirls bearing the imprint of Ouoji's tongue. Their eyes were shut and they wiggled around blindly, mewing and grunting as they found their dinner.
Ouoji looked up at Siggerson and slitted her large blue eyes in contentment.
He smiled at her, then sobered. "We have to go back now for the squad. They may be needing help."
Ouoji flicked up the tip of her tail. Taking that as a signal of agreement, Siggerson headed for the bridge. On the way, a wave of fatigue hit him. His knees went funny and he had to steady himself against the wall of the lift a moment before he could step off.
At first he thought it was the painkiller kicking in belatedly. Then he realized it had been hours since he'd last slept or eaten. He couldn't stay alert like that. Getting back into the lift, he went to the mess and got himself some coffee and a couple of stale-tasting ration bars. Their food supply was a joke, since there hadn't been a way to stock the processors before they left Station 4.
Munching on one of the bars, he scattered crumbs across his master station as he carefully plotted his return course. He had to return to Methanus slowly, nursing that hull split, and he had to avoid the ships looking for him. Their scanners might not be able to detect him while he had the waver shield on, but he didn't want a collision either.
He got everything adjusted and the ship on her new course heading. Then he settled back in his chair for a nap. At this speed, it was going to take a long while to get back.
But even as he dozed off, a smile lingered on his lips. Wait until the others saw the babies.
Ten hours later, a klaxon blasted him from deep sleep. Siggerson jerked erect and looked around wildly before he
realized where he was. Rubbing his eyes, he checked the readouts and saw that they were on final approach to Metha-nus. He killed the klaxon and sighed at the blessed quiet which followed.
A quick check of the transponder monitor came up blank. Siggerson drew a deep breath. All right. He had to assume that they were still inside Opie's villa. They might or might not be prisoners. He might not know the full situation, but he did know that they couldn't teleport out unless that force wall came down.
He got up and walked stiffly over to Phila's station where the computer had long since run the problems he had set for it after the last mission briefing. There was only one way to breach the villa. One way to override the security systems. One way to make the force wall drop.
Blast it from space.
It was a big risk. With that much power and that much distance, pinpoint accuracy became a matter of scale. Kelly had vetoed it as too dangerous. Since they couldn't be sure of not demolishing the villa around 41, Kelly had wanted to go down and try to negotiate with Harva Opie first.
Obviously that course of action had failed. Now there didn't seem to be any option other than attack. But the risks had quadrupled. Now it wasn't just 41 at stake; it was the entire squad.
Siggerson frowned, wishing he didn't have to make the decision. Caesar would have tried it without a qualm, but he wasn't Caesar. He saw all the ramifications of a course of action ahead of time. He was careful. He wanted all the details figured out. He liked every risk measured and reduced as much as possible.
And meanwhile the minutes were racing by and the squad was probably in desperate trouble. He couldn't afford to just stand by and wait.
He wished there was some way to hit the power generators of the villa, to break into the security system and make it drop the force wall. He could do that to other ships if he had the proper sequence codes. He had already tried it with this system
and found it didn't work that way. Everything was internal, protected by the barrier. He couldn't reach it.
Dry mouthed, he rubbed his face, feeling beard bristles scratch his palm, and walked back to his master station. Slowly he brought the plasma cannons on line, opened the weapons hatch, and armed the charges. Then he paused a moment and watched his good hand tremble. He clenched his fist hard, then uncurled it. This time it was steady.
He forced himself to stop thinking about the squad, to concentrate instead upon his job. He calculated the trajectory, set the firing computer to lock on, and adjusted the power ratio three different times. This had to be just right.
The collision klaxon went off, making him jump. He swore aloud and adjusted course to avoid the docking approach of a shuttle to its supply ship. Resettling the Sabre back into her geosynchronous orbit, he had to recalculate trajectory path and power ratio yet again.
Weakness flowed outward from his stomach down into his legs. He was glad he was sitting down. Make it a light touch, he told himself, and fired.
10
Life and death. With every passing year, medical science wrestled a little more control over that question from the hand of fate.
The surgeon operating on 41 was skilled, swift, and expert at what she was doing. It took Beaulieu five minutes of standing ready to assist to determine that her help wasn't needed. Beaulieu stepped out of the way and watched the transfusion pump go up and down. The lung machine breathing for 41 was steady and rhythmical; it haunted Beaulieu like the sound of her own heartbeat. She found herself perspiring heavily.
Not to have the instruments in her own hands was nearly unbearable. She wasn't used to standing on the sidelines during a major operation of this kind. It made her passive, and she hated it.
The surgeon and her two assistants opened 41's chest, retracting, attaching clamps, and laser sealing bleeders with the efficiency of much practice. There came the quick buzz of the rib saw, and one of the assistants dropped the removed ribs into a steel tray of regenerative liquid packed with the necessary
135
nutrients and preservative agents to support the living bone tissue.
The surgeon sliced through the pericardium. "There's the heart."
Beaulieu stepped up to the operating table. "I want to see it."
She leaned over the cold mist of the sterilization field to examine the torn, shattered organ. "Magnification goggles," she said.
The assistant stared at her blankly and made no move to get her any.
Beaulieu glared at him. "May I please have a pair of goggles?"
After a moment the surgeon said in a cold, heavily accented voice, "We don't need them."
Beaulieu blinked and realized they were borgs, all of them. No wonder they worked so swiftly. What kind of specialized medical scanners had been fitted into their eyes? She flushed, feeling embarrassed and somehow inadequate, and the very irrationality of her feelings angered her more.
"Well, I do," she said. "Are there any available?"
"No."
She refused to back down. Again she bent over 41's bloody chest and peered into the cavity, squinting under the surgical lights and damning her middle-aged eyesight. 41 's heart didn't quite look like a human one. She was fascinated by this chance to examine his anatomy, but she kept her mind on the job. "Heavy right ventricle damage. Tear in the aorta," she said. "Well, good. At least it's not the side supplying blood to the entire body. This can be repaired right along with his lung damage."
"Replacement is better," said the surgeon.
"For whom?" demanded Beaulieu. "The patient or your boss? 41 doesn't need a new heart. This one can be repaired. As much as possible, keep to the original body parts. That's a valid rule in medical—"
"Repair can be effected," said the surgeon tonelessly, "but function will be reduced by one half."
She grasped 41 's heart and shifted it slightly to show Beaulieu the other ventricle.
The fire went out of Beaulieu. Her hands tightened on the edge of the operating table in despair. The surgeon was right, had scanned immediately what Beaulieu had not seen. 41 could be patched up, but he would never be able to exert himself in any but the mildest way. He could take slow careful walks. He could sit in his room and die from the loss of freedom.
"Replacement is better," said the surgeon.
Beaulieu nodded without a word and turned away to let them get on with it. Her own emotions were interfering with her trained judgment. Naturally she was familiar with organ replacement techniques. She knew all about artificial heart installation. She had performed such surgery herself in the past.
But not on a friend.
In the few seconds it took for Beaulieu to steady herself, they had made an incision in 41's thigh to connect the necessary artery to artificial heart-lung support. The surgeon clamped the aorta, and 41's laboring heart stopped. For a moment there were only the sounds of the support machines, humming along beneath the soft hiss of the sterilization field.
They began by slicing out the damaged section of his aorta. One assistant kept an eye on his monitors while the other opened a sterile package and put the artificial aorta into a tray of blood to soak.
While waiting on it, the surgeon removed 41's heart with neat precision. She stood back while one of the assistants lifted 41 's left lung, then while the man held it, she removed that too. The replacement lung was woven of organic fibers far stronger than the original.
By the time the lung was installed, the new aorta had clotted satisfactorily. The surgeon clamped it into place and lasered it. She allowed some blood to pass through it, flushed it out, and ran some more in a check for leaks. These were also sealed.
Beaulieu watched critically, able to find no fault in the proceedings. She knew that the steady flow of blood would
soon form a leak-proof new lining similar to the intima in the original artery. Beaulieu nodded. Beautifully done.
The new heart was lifted from a sterile container. Beaulieu had never seen a design like this before; it was much more advanced than anything described in her medical journals. She glanced at the monitors in concern. In all her many years as a surgeon she had never quite been able to overcome her distrust of life support equipment. 41 showed no difficulties, and she eased out her breath in wonder.
The operation was going amazingly fast. Without any evidence of being tired, the surgeon went to work attaching the multitude of veins, coronary arteries, bleeders, etc. that made up the complex network surrounding the heart. Then the bottom of the new aorta graft was undamped and attached. The fit was perfect, of course; they had been designed to corre­spond. 41 's femoral artery was undamped, and his vascular network rechanneled off the support machine.
For several minutes they all watched the pulse go through the aorta patch. The new heart pumped strongly, steadily. Beneath it, the new lung swelled and deflated. No leaks. No seepage.
Beaulieu felt the wondrous awe for life that had sent her to medical school thirty years ago. Since then she had grown cynical about many things, but never this.
Had this been a normal operating theater, the surgeons and assistants would have been exclaiming, slapping each other on the back, shaking hands. Here, the surgeon merely watched, her eyes unblinking as she scanned for any potential malfunc­tions.
Then she blinked and nodded. "Satisfactory. Time to close."
The ribs were taken from their tray and set with quick bursts of re-gen radiation that would hold them in place while slower, more natural healing took place. The wound was sealed and cleaned, leaving a long, angry welt running diagonally across 41's chest. They waited until the last transfusion was com­pleted and watched 41's life signs. Finally even minimal life support was switched off. His signs remained steady.
Beaulieu closed her eyes in relief.
Peeling off her gloves, the surgeon switched on a wall comm. "The emergency surgery is completed," she said.
Harva Opie's seamed face appeared on the screen. "Suc­cessful?"
"Yes."
"Good. How long until the cybernetic procedures can be started?"
"Five hours. I wish to be sure he is entirely stabilized. The trauma was great. This time can be shortened, of course, depending on what the engineers have outlined for his new functions."
Opie replied at length, but Beaulieu stopped listening. It wasn't over, not by a long shot. It was just beginning. Exhausted, she sank down on a stool by the biocomp console and rubbed her eyes. She forced herself to stop thinking about how tired she was. That kind of self-pity was a luxury she couldn't afford right now. She had to figure out a way to get 41 out of here.
Five hours. It didn't seem very long.
The surgeon snapped off the comm and came to her. "There is no longer a need for your presence. You will return to the holding pen."
"The hell I will," said Beaulieu. "You may have done all the razzle-dazzle surgery, doctor, but I happen to be this man's physician. I intend to stay right with him through post-op."
"Unnecessary-"
Beaulieu jumped to her feet and poked the surgeon in the chest with an angry forefinger. "Listen, you augmented piece of ice! You were a normal human being once. You went through med school. You slaved to memorize those anatomical charts, and you sweated through your exams. Now I don't know when you went to work in this chamber of horrors, and I don't care. I don't know what vanity possessed you to become augmented. I guess playing God in the operating room wasn't enough for you, and you had to go one better. Fine. But you remember that you don't know it all, not quite yet. There're still a few miracles of life and death beyond our control. I want to be here when he wakes up. I want to see if life support held
him as steady as we hope. I want to make sure he's cognizant and not suffering any brain damage. I want him to see me, and to hear from me that he's going to live.
"Now if you want me out of here, you're going to have to throw me out. Otherwise, try to recall one scrap of humanity left in yourself and let me stay."
The surgeon stared at her for several seconds without expression. "Stay," she said at last and turned away to give her assistants orders.
Beaulieu let out her breath and sat down again before her legs collapsed under her in an adrenaline ebb. The assistants dimmed the lights over the table and shut down all the equipment except essential monitors. The instruments were thrown into a sterilization chamber for cleaning. They left the room, but the surgeon lingered at the door.
"A guard is outside," she said. "You cannot escape. We shall return in four hours, twenty-five minutes. Then you must leave."
"Thank you," said Beaulieu curtly.
The surgeon stared at her as though she had forgotten how to respond to a simple expression of gratitude. With a frown, the surgeon left.
Alone, Beaulieu got up from her stool and stood over 41. "You have as many lives as a cat," she said softly, reaching for his pulse despite the monitor that was already providing her with that information. "My God, how are we going to get you out of this?"
Three hours later she was still pacing back and forth with no solutions to the problem. She had thought of everything from injecting 41 with a stimulant and making a dash for freedom the moment the door opened, to running down the corridors with his unconscious body on the grav-flat. All were improb­able, impossible ideas. She would be lucky if he even regained consciousness within the deadline.
"Was I wrong?" she said aloud to him as he lay there under the dim flicker of the monitor lights. "Should I have laid aside my Hippocratic oath and urged Kelly to let you die? We go on and on, debating over that old problem of the quality of life.
Are you going to end up an insane monster like Taft? Should I spare you that fate and smother you here and now while you sleep?"
Her own words horrified her, and she stopped pacing to pinch the bridge of her nose with her fingers. She was too tired to think straight. Long ago she had come to the decision that such judgments of life and death were not for her. She could not play God that way. All she could do was use the utmost of her skills to save and preserve life. To attempt to step beyond that self-imposed boundary was to mire herself in a moral quicksand that would have eventually destroyed her judgment and her confidence, possibly even her sanity. She had made that choice then; she stuck to it now.
Putting her hand on his, she held it tightly in a mixture of apology and simple gladness that he hadn't died.
41 stirred. His eyes opened, squinting as though the dim light hurt them. He was completely disoriented and only half conscious, as was natural.
Beaulieu bent over him. "41," she said clearly. "Can you hear me, 41?"
His lips moved, and in a fuzzy voice he said something in a language which her translator could not decipher.
She tried again. "41, this is Beaulieu. Can you look at me? Do you hear me, 41? Try to look at me."
His eyes closed and opened again. They shifted away from her, then found her. She checked his pupils, waiting while he tried to focus.
"Who am I, 41?"
Some of the haziness left him. He tried to smile. "Beau-lieu."
"That's right," she said warmly. "Go back to sleep."
He did so, and she spent a few moments listening to his breathing. His lungs were clear.
The wall comm whistled. She turned in startlement to find Opie's ugly face upon the screen.
"Commendable dedication, Dr. Beaulieu," he said in a tone that mocked his words.
She stared at him with cold loathing. "How long until you're scheduled to die of metal poisoning?"
His single eye went wild, then narrowed. "Observant of you."
"It's obvious to anyone with training," she said brusquely. "In your army what is the rate of loss due to metal poisoning, adverse drug side effects, and complete rejection?"
"The actual statistics don't interest you, Dr. Beaulieu," he said. "You are just stabbing."
"Yes, I am." She looked at him with sudden understanding. "You're dying, and you want 41 to be borged so that he can be fitted with your memory chips. You're planning to turn him into a replica of yourself, to ensure that your legacy goes on."
He remained silent long enough to tell her that she'd guessed correctly. Then he said, "No. It doesn't have to be 41. Anyone will do."
"I don't think so. You're fond of 41. Or you were once, before he quit being a mercenary. Did you see that as a betrayal?"
"Yes! I groomed him, gave him special training no one else had at the time, and he threw all of it in my face. He was undisciplined and indifferent. He cared nothing about the expanding size of my business. He refused to see the potential. He is too primitive, too uncivilized, too unstable to compre­hend how far he can go if he would only try!"
"And when he came within your grasp again, you decided to turn this into punishment, into some kind of twisted revenge."
"You are another romantic," said Opie with a sneer. "Just like your commander. You pathetic StarHawks, with your fancy uniforms and your emblems and your traditions. You are outmoded, outdated, doomed! 41 will never know. When he wakes up, he'll be me, with my thought patterns, my ambi­tions, my gift for strategy and business. And when his years grow too long and he begins to wear out, I will be transferred to another. On and on. My form—if you will grant me the vanity of the term—of immortality."
"It is a pathetic dream," said Beaulieu, "and it won't work."
"It has been tested—"
"On whom? Taft? He was psychotic."
Opie's mouth twisted a moment with anger. "There were others," he said at last.
"And they—"
"Enough! You are not in a position to criticize my actions. It will be a pleasure to sell you to the representatives from Mechtaxlan, who, incidentally, are enroute to claim you, your commander, and your companions."
The screen blanked, giving him the final word and leaving Beaulieu frustrated. Time was running out. There had to be something she could do.
She was in a lab, dammit. Why not mix up some nasty surprises?
Without hesitation, she set to work.
Forty-five minutes later, she had found a smock with capacious pockets, which she filled with vials of her com­pound. Everything around here was geared toward organic acceptance of inorganic matter within living tissue. All she had to do was reverse that, to come up with the mixtures that would aggravate rejection.
She crouched at the door, trying to figure out a way to short out the lock, when the first explosion rocked her off her feet.
The lights flickered and went out, plunging her into com­plete darkness. She smelled smoke from somewhere and heard the spitting crackle of shorting circuits.
41 mumbled something. Beaulieu jumped to her feet and ran to him, crunching over broken glass and surgical instruments which littered the floor. She reached out blindly, touched his shoulder, and pushed him back down.
"Don't try to sit up," she said. "It's all right. I think Kelly is up to something."
Remembering she'd seen a hand torch lying in one of the cabinets, Beaulieu fumbled around until she found it. She snapped it on, and the narrow beam of light renewed her spirits.
"The power is off, 41" she said with glee. "That means the
force wall is down. That means Siggerson can get us out of here!"
But not without their wristbands. She hadn't a clue as to where those had gone to. Shining her torch over the comm, she fiddled with it to see if it had any range on it, but it was dead too. Of course. Stupid of her.
"Where is Kelly?" asked 41 groggily. "Where is my gun?"
"You lie still!" she said. "You're in no shape to be waving a gun around. I'm going to try to get the door open while the lock's off. Will you promise to just lie there and let me deal with things?"
41 grunted. "Need a weapon."
To quieten him, she handed him a laser scalpel. "Here, hang onto this. Don't cut yourself with it."
His long fingers grasped the scalpel with apparent satisfac­tion. Beaulieu ran to the door and pushed, trying to slide it open. It budged reluctantly, making her strain until perspiration popped out all over her. A hand reached in, curling around the edge of the door. Beaulieu jumped back, her heart pounding.
She'd forgotten all about the guard posted outside.
"Will get this open soon," he said in mere-speak. "Then you come out. Go in holding pen."
"Sure," said Beaulieu. She put her hand in her pocket and closed her fingers around one of the vials. "Without your helmet you could probably get your head and shoulder through and put all your strength to the door."
He stared at her a moment in silence while she wondered if he would take the suggestion or shoot her. Finally he took off his helmet. "Stand away."
She backed up until she stood by 41. He turned his head, but she put a warning finger across his lips.
Grunting, the guard slid the door open with a tortured screech of protest. It went three-quarters of the way, then jammed and would budge no more.
"Good enough." The guard faced her and drew his weapon. "All right. Come out. You must be secured."
She nodded and walked out meekly. As she drew even with
him, however, she pulled out the vial and snapped it open. The contents splashed in his face.
He flinched back, then with a roar of anger he swung at her. His fist smashed into her shoulder like a pile driver, sending her crashing against the wall. The pain was incredible; for a moment she was aware of nothing else. She feared he had broken her bones, but when he seized her and jerked her around, her left arm moved instinctively in a punch to his jaw that sent fresh agony through her shoulder. The blow wasn't strong enough to hurt him in any way. He shoved her into the wall again, and this time the wind was knocked out of her. She wheezed, feeling her knees buckle, and covered her face with her arms, waiting for the final blow.
It didn't come.
He screamed and began clawing at his face. Beaulieu grabbed his weapon and shot him with it. Without checking to see if he was dead, she hurried to 41's table, activated the grav-flat beneath it, and removed the supports. But when she steered him to the door, she found that the opening wasn't quite wide enough.
No amount of cursing was going to change that. She didn't even try to shove again on the door. If a cyborg couldn't do it, she was just wasting her time.
The sound of shouting in the distance told her she wouldn't be alone much longer.
"41," she said, touching his arm. "I'm going to help you sit up very slowly. Tell me at once if you feel any pain or dizziness. All right?"
"Yes."
His meekness bothered her, although she supposed she should be grateful for it. She levered him upright, heard him gasp once with pain, and berated herself sharply for even considering getting a man up and on his feet this soon after a major organ transplant.
They had no choice. Hooking his right arm over her shoulder, she eased him onto his feet. He was far from steady, but she propped him against the wall and carefully took away her support.
"Stay there and don't move."
He nodded in silence, looking like he might collapse at any moment.
She tipped the grav-flat and shoved it through the doorway. Leaving it bobbing in the corridor, she put her shoulder under 41 's arm and got him moving, a slow footstep at a time.
All the while the footsteps and shouting were getting louder. Their time was running out.
41 lifted his head. "Beaulieu," he said, and the strain told in his voice.
"Hush," she said, helping him across the threshold. "Save your breath. Don't try to talk."
She got him back on the grav-flat, and he passed out on her. Beaulieu looked back and forth to get her bearings. Her sense of direction was totally shot in this place. More noise seemed to be coming from her left, so she went right, hitting a run with her torch bouncing crazily ahead of her, pushing 41 as she went.
To keep up her confidence, she recited her blessings: she had a gun and she had more chemicals, she'd managed to escape, and 41 was alive. Now all she had to do was find Kelly and the others before the power was restored and they were trapped forever.
Simple.
Sure it was.
11
Kelly sat cross-legged on the concrete floor of the cell while Phila carefully tried to break the closure circuit of his restraint collar. They all three wore the collars now, and after an hour of tinkering while Kelly dared not draw even a deep breath and no one said a word, Phila still hadn't gotten anywhere with it.
Caesar, now divested of armor, weapons, and communica­tor, had his eyes shut. Kelly couldn't tell if he was asleep or not.
Without warning their cell rocked in a violent tremor that came out of nowhere. Phila jerked her hands off the collar. Kelly went sprawling. Chunks of ceiling and dust came down. Then the floor quit shaking, and the rumble stopped.
Kelly and Caesar looked up.
"What the—"
Their single light went out, plunging them into darkness. Kelly grabbed Phila's arm, aware that without sight or hearing she would quickly become disoriented.
"Caesar!" he said. "Check the door and see if the lock's failed."
Caesar scrambled to obey. Kelly heard him grunt as though 147
he'd ran into the wall. Then he said, "Yo! It's off. But we're gonna get a hernia trying to shove this door open."
"I'll help," said Kelly.
He got to his feet and led Phila to the wall. He placed her palm upon the wall then patted her shoulder and released her. Together he and Caesar strained and managed to open the door just far enough to squeeze through.
Kelly spun back to grab Phila by the wrist, while Caesar went through first to tackle the guard. Kelly heard sounds of a scuffle, the thuds of punches, a curse, and the whine of a plasma bolt. Kelly froze, cursing the darkness, and his grip tightened on Phila.         y
Who had gotten it out there in the corridor? He couldn't hesitate forever.
Taking the gamble, he whispered, "Caesar?"
"Yo," said Caesar's voice, strangled and breathless. "Hang on. I've got to search this ..."
His voice faded out, but Kelly heard some grunts and the scrape of body armor on concrete as though Caesar were dragging the guard. A small torch flicked on, and Caesar's sweating face loomed, disembodied, out of the darkness. He tossed Kelly two pistols, and Kelly passed one of them along to Phila.
"Can you believe this?" said Caesar, grinning. "He was wearing my wristband. A little souvenir, maybe?"
Kelly sucked in a breath of relief. "Get on it—fast."
Someone shouted, and a shot struck the edge of the door just centimeters from Kelly's head. Caesar ducked with a curse, and Kelly aimed over his shoulder and fired. There was a cry of pain followed by the thud of someone falling.
"You got him!" said Caesar, straightening with a gasp. "Damned good shot."
"Damned lucky shot," said Kelly angrily, wiping his fore­head. "Get in here and open that hailing frequency. If the power's off, Siggerson had something to do with it. I want us out while the force wall is down."
"Calling Sabre," said Caesar. "Samms to Sabre. Siggerson, come in—"
"This is the Sabre," said Siggerson's voice. "Do you want pickup?"
"Yusus, Siggie, I never thought your voice could sound so good," said Caesar. "Affirmative on pickup. Stand by. Boss—"
"Get up there now," said Kelly. "Send down four wrist­bands, a scanner, and a die-hard."
"I'll be right back—"
"No! You help Siggerson with the ship. Even if he's under the waver, once he starts transmissions and teleport activity, he'll be detected. I want Phila brought up as fast as possible."
"But, boss, you haven't a prayer of finding Beaulieu and 41 alone."
Kelly turned on him. "Don't argue, mister! You get up there on the ship's sensors. Scan for Beaulieu. Now move!"
"Right," said Caesar. "Siggerson, bring me up."
Seconds later, he shimmered out of sight. Kelly handed the torch to Phila, who smiled at him and gave him a thumbs up. He smiled back, glad to see she still had plenty of spirit. He hoped to hell she could get her hearing back.
The sound of the teleport signal alerted him. Caesar had sent down the wristbands, a die-hard, and a heavy-duty torch capable of throwing a beam fifty meters. Kelly grabbed himself a wristband and tossed one to Phila.
While she was getting hers on, he called the ship. "Kelly here. I'm getting a lot of static. What's the interference?"
The crackling got worse. Caesar's voice came through faintly. "... jamming. Source is . . ."
"I'm not reading you," said Kelly desperately. "Have you found Beaulieu's coordinates?"
Static answered him. A siren came on in the corridor, and Kelly jerked around in startlement. Some kind of emergency power reserves must be coming on.
"Caesar! If you can hear me, bring Phila up now."
He picked up the die-hard and the torch and scrambled well away from Phila, who frowned at him in puzzlement, then in dawning protest. She opened her mouth and shook her head, but the teleport beam caught her and she vanished.
Kelly scraped through the doorway and stepped over the fallen guard. He could hear pounding on the doors of nearby cells as other prisoners tried to get out. The siren wailed on. He hesitated, glancing back at the guard, then knelt beside him.
The only way he was going to get through these corridors was if he looked like a mercenary. Kelly unhooked the guard's armor. He fitted the back of the corselet over his shoulders and leaned against the wall to hold it in place while he lined up the front section. He thumped the left shoulder latch and smacked his shoulderblades against the wall. The right latch engaged, and the rest followed suit down his sides. The leggings were the same procedure. He didn't bother trying to charge up the force shield. With borgs, most of their equipment was isomor-phic. He might electrocute himself.
He dragged the stripped guard into the cell. Grabbing his die-hard, he snapped on the powerful torch and jogged down the corridor until he encountered his first mop-up detail.
Merc-speak flashed at him: "How many prisoners out?"
"Holding cells 9 and 11 emptied," said Kelly, hoping he had the accent right. "Guard dead. Get busy on containment."
They separated, and Kelly hurried on, thanking his stars that he'd risked the armor. He encountered several more details on his search. None recognized him, even when partial lighting came back on. He snapped off his torch and hooked it to his belt. For a while he had anonymity, but it wasn't helping him to find Beaulieu and 41.
As soon as he found a clear spot in the corridor, he activated his comm. "Kelly to ship," he said hurriedly, afraid of tracers waiting to pinpoint his call. "Anything yet?"
The signal was better. Someone on the ship had cleaned out most of the interference. "Yes," replied Siggerson's voice, as laconic as ever. "Level three, moving on a parallel bearing to yourself."
Kelly considered it. He was on level two. There was still a chance of reaching them. "All right," he said. "Keep me advised if they disappear."
"Kelly!" said Siggerson urgently before Kelly could sign
off. "The auxiliary power reserves are phasing up the force wall. I estimate you have thirteen minutes before it closes. Do you copy?"
"Copy," said Kelly. His spirits flagged, but with a conscious effort of will he boosted them again. He wasn't going to give up, not yet, not this close.
"Do you want teleport?"
"Negative!" he said, afraid they would snatch him out despite his orders.
"Kelly—"
"I'm going to get them out. Now stay on that monitor!" he said and cut off.
Holding his die-hard ready at his side, he ran to the nearest lift. When he came to one, it was inoperable. He ran his hand along the wall, searching for one of the disguised service tunnels. To his relief, it was close by, and it did have a ladder. Slinging his die-hard over his shoulder, he started climbing.
At the next level, he emerged puffing for breath. His arms and legs burned from the effort of hauling himself and the heavy armor, but he didn't dare rest.
His comm whistled softly. "Eight minutes to closure."
Kelly tipped back his head and gulped in air. He started running. He heard shooting ahead, and quickened his pace, suddenly certain that he was going to be too late to save mem. As he ran he snapped instructions into his comm:
"Siggerson, as soon as you make teleport contact on them, pull them first. If we aren't all together, pull them first. That's a direct order!"
Siggerson said something, but by then Kelly had rounded a bend and came up behind two kneeling mercenaries who were firing on Beaulieu. She was crouched awkwardly behind a thin grav-flat for cover. 41 lay sprawled nearby.
A lump filled Kelly's throat. Without hesitation he slagged the two mercenaries from behind, men threw himself flat to avoid Beaulieu's erratic shooting.
"Beaulieu!" he yelled, ducking again. "Beaulieu, it's me! Kelly! For God's sake, stop shooting."
The roar of her weapon faded. She peered around the edge of the grav-flat. "Kelly?"
"Here!" He tossed the two wristbands at her. "Get them on. Hurry!"
He saw her grab them off the floor, snap one on herself and turn to put the other on 41. Kelly picked himself up to join them, but Beaulieu glanced at him and pointed.
"Kelly!"
Her warning was a split second too late. Kelly spun, aiming his die-hard in a spray of plasma that caught two of his attackers but not the third. A plasma bolt raked across his side, knocking him down with such force he skidded on the floor and slammed into the wall. He fired again, but his aim was ruined.
In the distance, through the wail of the siren and the sound of plasma bolts, he heard the welcome whine of the teleport beam and knew that Beaulieu and 41 were safe. That was the important thing. There was no point hoping that Siggerson would be able to shift the coordinates fast enough. Even a shift often meters required too many calculations. By now the force wall was probably up. There wasn't time to feel any regrets. Kelly knew he hadn't failed this time.
And meanwhile he was still firing like a maniac at his opponent, who had dived for cover behind the fallen bodies of his comrades.
The mere returned fire, missing Kelly by a hair. The wall buckled and melted, becoming too hot to stay near. Kelly scrambled to one side, and that gave the mere time to fire again. Kelly felt the heat slagging through his armor, unbear­able heat that seemed to melt the armor to his bones. Screaming, he tried to fire back, but the die-hard wasn't responding.
Then displacement grabbed him, and as he faded he saw the mere fire again and again through the spot where Kelly was supposed to be. Then there was nothing at all.
On the Sabre pandemonium raged. Siggerson sat at his master station, his good hand hovering on the helm controls.
Nursing his aching left wrist in his lap, he kept his gaze glued to the sensors that were tracking the ships bearing down on the Sabre.
"One minute," he said over the in-ship comm. "Counting. Fifty-eight, fifty-seven—"
"For God's sake!" yelled Caesar loudly enough to make the comm speakers squawk. "Don't start a countdown. Just sit steady until I give you the word."
"The word is we're going to be roasted right here in orbit if we don't move now!"
"Stay, Siggerson. Damn you—"
Caesar's voice cut off, and Siggerson swore at the empty comm. He waited, although all his instincts urged him to blast them out of there. He waited, because Kelly still had forty-two seconds of chance left.
In the teleport bay, Caesar sweated bullets trying to get a fix on Kelly's position. The signal was all loose and wobbly, showing interference spikes which told Caesar that Kelly was in the middle of a plasma shoot-out. At least the calculations were locked in and running. The teleport reset itself with agonizing slowness, the passing seconds like years.
Beaulieu dragged 41 off the platform like a rag doll and propped him against the wall. He was conscious but looked half-dead. Beaulieu hovered over the console, and Phila was pressed so close to Caesar's chair he could feel her breathing down his neck.
He wanted to yell at both of them to give him some room, but he couldn't spare the attention. "Come on. Come on," he breathed, watching his controls. "Lock on. Dammit, lock on!"
The light flashed green. Beaulieu and Phila cried out simultaneously, and Caesar hit the controls.
Over the comm came Siggerson's voice, as cold as doom and about as welcome: "Four seconds to closure. Is he aboard yet? We have a missile running, tracking us. Impact in—"
"Shut up!" yelled Caesar.
Beaulieu leaned closer. "Do you have him? Do you have a
strong enough signal for us to move? Can we break orbit, Caesar?"
"Are you nuts?" he shouted. "We could snap him off like crack the whip. Let's not lose him now—"
The hum of the teleport came over the platform. Kelly materialized, then faded out as warning lights flashed all across the board. Caesar stared, aghast. Phila shoved him aside and punched in the reset sequence.
The hum returned, rippling, shimmering. Kelly appeared, faded out again, then materialized in a heap on the platform. Caesar blew out the breath he'd been holding and gave Phila a light punch to her shoulder. She punched back, and they grinned at each other.
Beaulieu ran to Kelly's side and bent over him just as a klaxon went off. The ship lurched back and forth as though a gigantic hand had shaken it. Caesar tumbled to the deck with Phila sprawled on top of him. The alarms were blaring like the gongs of hell, and Caesar could just make out Siggerson's voice yelling over the comm.
He couldn't understand the words, however, and every time he tried to climb to his feet, the ship shuddered again. He finally got disentangled from Phila, grabbed the wall, and used it to steady himself as he reached for the comm.
"Siggie, he's aboard. You can run now."
Siggerson swore an oath so blistering Caesar blinked in surprise. "I don't think we've got anything left to run with," he said.
"Then start shooting back," said Caesar.
"You come help."
"Right." Caesar looked around at Phila, who was picking herself up stiffly, at 41 who wasn't picking himself up, at Beaulieu who had Kelly sitting up now. The boss was alive and he had all his fingers and toes. Grinning to himself, Caesar ran for the lift.
Reaching the bridge, he found Siggerson sitting like a ghoul in the midst of smoke and circuit fires. Siggerson's blackened face was tear-stained, and he had his left arm hugged to his
chest, but he was still battling to operate helm and keep everything else going.
"I can't get to the firing computer," he said, gasping for breath, then coughing. "Our stabilizer network is—"
"Do what you can," said Caesar, running to a station. "I'll take care of the war."
Siggerson nodded and glanced at his sensors. "Another missile launched and tracking us."
Caesar flipped switches and got it on his screen. "Releasing missile containment devices."
The little decoys went bobbing out into the path of the missile, each decoy equipped with a radiation device designed to simulate the heat emissions of a ship. As soon as the missile wobbled into them and detonated, Caesar locked on the direct-target plasma cannons.
"Ready to fire," he said. "Drop the force wall."
"What force wall?" retorted Siggerson bitterly. "How do you think that first missile was able to hit us broadside?"
Caesar fired, then whipped his head around. "You mean we haven't any shields at all?"
"None. And we've got a hull patch that will come apart the minute we jump into time distort."
Caesar swiveled his head back in time to watch his cannons rake the side of their opponent open. "Got him! Move this bucket, Siggie, and get us under waver."
"I am moving," said Siggerson. "And we've got partial waver."
"Partial is the same as none."
Siggerson glared at him. "Then what do you suggest?"
"I suggest," said Kelly's voice from the lift side of the bridge, "that you see if those old holo projectors are working. You can use mem to supplement—"
"Yes, of course," said Siggerson crisply, but with a smile. He rose from his master station. "Samms, you take the helm. Keep her on the course I've already plotted. I'll be in the engine room."
He was gone before Caesar could protest.
Kelly stood there, one side of his face looking singed and a
burn bandage swathing his arm. His blue eyes were alight with the old zest that Caesar knew so well.
"How about it, Mr. Samms?" Kelly said. "This may well be your one and only chance to fly her with Siggerson's blessing."
"Yeah, jealous about it, ain't he?" muttered Caesar. He took the station and settled into the pilot's chair. The helm fought him like a worn-out old junker. With the port stabilizers shot, they were listing badly, which played hell with keeping her on course. In seconds, Caesar was sweating, his mind numb from trying to keep an eye on everything at once. He was desperately aware of the two pursuit ships coming up fast on their aft.
Kelly leaned over the console, watching the sensors. "They don't see us," he said. "Look at their velocity. It's gaining steadily. They'll overshoot us if you keep our speed nice and slow. Steady on, Caesar."
Caesar blinked sweat from his eyes and hoped Kelly was right. "This speed," he said nervously, "happens to be all she's got."
Kelly frowned, but all he said was, "Then we have a long ride home ahead of us."
So he did mean to go back. Until this moment, Caesar hadn't let himself dwell on the consequences of their escapade. He didn't think a court-martial was going to be much fun, especially if they were found guilty—which they were—and mindwiped for rehabilitation. Somehow, the old-fashioned, nineteenth-century punishment of summary execution sounded more appealing.
"Uh," said Caesar slowly, swallowing hard, "we are going back?"
"I am," said Kelly without hesitation. "41, Phila, and .Beaulieu are. You and Mr. Siggerson will have to make your own choices."
Caesar thought it over. He'd never been one for confession or showing up to take his licks. Kelly, of course, had all that honor crap drilled into him from infancy. But if the others were going back in, then Caesar didn't want to be the odd coward.
And he didn't want to spend his days hiding on some non-compliance planet with just Siggerson for company.
"Uh, boss?" said Caesar.
"Yes?"
"Before we get completely out of range, can I detonate those bombs I planted in Opie's complex?"
Kelly glanced away, but not before Caesar saw him smile. "Yes, you may, Mr. Samms."
"Thank you, Commander."
Saluting for good measure, since they were being so damned formal, Caesar activated the long-range detonator. It would take ten minutes for the signal to reach Methanus and give Opie a nice, toasty farewell from the StarHawks. He and Kelly waited in silence, but the distance scanners registered no explosions.
Caesar sighed. "Their force wall is blocking the signal. Dammit! I should have blown it before we left."
Kelly fingered his collar. "Maybe it's just as well. I don't know what the signal range is on these collars."
"Yo, a stand off," said Caesar, brightening. "Too bad we couldn't get that borg ship out of there to fly home. That would have made the brass sit up and take notice."
Kelly looked pensive. "Yes. Too bad."
"I guess I ... aw, hell, boss. I'll go back with everyone else. Might as well."
"I think that's probably a good decision," said Kelly, pulling a hand-scanner from his pocket and holding it up, "considering that we have the full specs on that craft to trade for clemency."
Caesar's whoop was loud enough to rival the collision klaxon. He slapped Kelly on the back. "I should have known you'll pull something out of your hat at the last minute. How did you find my scanner?"
Kelly shrugged, but the smile kept stealing across his face. "It was that body armor I borrowed. All the pockets were full of little surprises—"
"Like the circuit boards?" said Caesar.
Kelly nodded. They were still grinning at each other when the in-ship comm came on.
"Are we out of range of pursuit ships?" asked Siggerson.
Kelly reached past Caesar to answer. "Looks like they've gone past us. Good work, Siggerson."
"Are we out of danger?"
"Yes, it looks that way. For now at least."
"Try to get the automateds on," said Siggerson. "Then come down to sickbay."
Kelly and Caesar exchanged glances. "What's wrong?" said Kelly.
"Nothing's wrong. We're just all waiting in line down here for Beaulieu to patch us together. You haven't strained the hull, have you? You're staying at constant speed?"
"Blow it out your ear, Siggie," said Caesar. "We can handle this baby just as good as you."
Kelly broke in before Siggerson could retort. "It's going to be a while before we can get free. We have some data to work on—"
"Belay work!" said Beaulieu's voice over the comm, cutting in impatiently. "You need food and rest, both of you! Now get down here. Siggerson has a surprise for you."
Kelly raised his brows. "We'll be there in a few minutes."
"Well, hurry up," she said and cancelled the line.
Kelly frowned. "I wonder what kind of surprise."
"Leave me up here," said Caesar with feeling. "I've had enough excitement for a while."
"No, she's right," said Kelly. "I don't know about you, but I'm beat. Let's go down and get these collars off at least. We'll break out your last bottle of Rymian gin that you think no one aboard knows about, and we'll celebrate. The data on this scanner can wait. We aren't going to lose it now."
Caesar grinned and stowed it carefully. "You're right. Go on ahead. I'll get the bottle and meet you there."
When Kelly reached the sickbay, he found 41 propped up on a recovery bunk, Beaulieu working on Phila's ears, and Siggerson nowhere in sight. Kelly paused and glanced around.
"So what's the surprise?" he said.
Wearing surgical magnification goggles, Beaulieu shrugged without looking up from what she was doing. Puzzled, Kelly
winked at Phila, who smiled back, then made his way over to 41's side.
Some color had returned to 41's face, although he still looked worn. The sickbay lights cast harsh shadows off the bony angles of his jaw and temple. The old wall was up again in his yellow eyes. Kelly wondered if 41 would ever talk of what he had been through on Methanus.
Kelly smiled at him. "If you don't quit saving my life, I'm never going to be able to call us even. How do you feel?"
"Sore."
"No, I mean inside." Kelly hesitated. "Are you—"
"Beaulieu says I am not borged. She says they repaired me, nothing more. I am not one of them, Kelly! I—"
"Easy. Take it easy." Kelly pressed his shoulder, holding him against the pillow until he felt some of the tension slacken in 41. "I just wanted—"
"I did not talk. I betrayed no secrets. I did not give them the information they wanted to know." 41 's eyes grew hot, insistent. "You survived the mind sieve once without breaking.
"I know," said Kelly. "Don't get so worked up. I know you didn't talk. It's okay, 41. You're safe now. You're home. You don't have to worry anymore."
41 frowned. "Don't lie. I know what is to come. You gave those orders, and I was afraid."
"41—"
"Let me say this. I had never been afraid before of what you wanted me to do. Fear makes failure. I got angry and I deserted. I disobeyed you, and I have caused much trouble."
Kelly shook his head. "You saved our necks on Kenszana."
41 drove a fist into his bunk. "It does not matter! I will be punished now."
"Possibly," said Kelly, "but once I explain things to West and Admiral Jedder—"
"Do not lie for me," said 41 angrily.
Kelly stared at him a moment, trying to figure him out. "Didn't you want us to come after you?"
41 would not meet his gaze. He said nothing.
"A while back, when we took you out of that cell, you were glad to see us. I don't know what they did to you, what Taft and Opie put you through, but—"
"The Alliance will do worse!" said 41. "Questions and trial, then death. I was better off with Harva Opie."
"Now you stop lying," said Kelly in annoyance.
41's eyes bored defiantly into his, then the anger in them cracked and fear looked out again.
"As soon as we're within reasonable transmission range, I'm going to call Jedderson and explain everything to him," said Kelly. "He's a fair man. He'll—"
"You, Kelly, I understand, "broke in 41, "but the others I do not understand. You came for me because you will not have debts—"
"I came because I care about you," said Kelly, frowning in an effort to make 41 understand. "You're my friend. You know that."
"They are not. Why did they make themselves guilty to stand with me?"
"Because they care about you too. It's a matter of honor. If your friend is in the wrong, then standing by him does him no good. But if your friend is right, then he deserves all your help."
41 frowned. "What is right? I disobeyed you."
"We all make mistakes. As far as I'm concerned, yours is paid for."
"Distinctions."
"Yes."
"Will the commodore understand distinctions? Will this Jedderson?"
"I think so. I hope so." Kelly sighed. "I think we have a good chance of getting out of this with our careers intact, but I can't guarantee it."
41 frowned into the distance, brooding. Kelly hesitated, then said, "If you run, I won't stop you. But your chances are better if you go back and face the tribunal."
"If I ran, would you come after me again?"
Kelly smiled. "Probably."
"And what will you do, Kelly, if there is no more career for you?"
Kelly glanced away, aware more than ever that he wanted to stay in the Hawks and go on doing what he loved so much. But nothing in life was ever guaranteed, and he wouldn't like it any other way.
He forced himself to meet 41's eyes squarely. "If I have to leave the Hawks, why, I guess I'll just become a mercenary."
A chuckle from Phila made him spin around before 41 could reply. Kelly stared at her with dawning relief. "You can hear!"
She winced and put her hand to her ears. "Too loud."
"Don't shout," said Beaulieu in a soft voice. "Give her some time to adjust."
The door slid open and Caesar came in right on cue, juggling a dusty bottle of the bootleg gin and enough glasses for everyone.
"Time to celebrate," he said, sounding as though he had already started without them. "Here's a glass for you, and you, and you, and you. Where's Siggerson? What's the surprise?"
"Get out of the way," said Siggerson from the doorway, standing there to hold the automatic door open. "Let Ouoji through."
Caesar skipped to one side and a very slim, sleek Ouoji came walking inside, her bushy tail erect, her ear flaps raised with pride. Behind her in a row, tottered three fluffy cubs, two blue-eyed and gray like their mother, the last one coal black with round eyes like amethysts.
Beaulieu and Phila cried out in wonder, 41 sat straight up to see them better, Caesar's mouth fell open, and Kelly just stared.
When she had them in the center of the room, Ouoji chittered a soft command and the three cubs sat down, blinking solemnly at the large humans surrounding them. Ouoji
switched her tail and jumped onto 41's bunk to bump against his arm.
He touched her nose and everyone watched as they ex­changed a silent communion.
"And we thought she was just getting fat in her old age," said Caesar at last. "Ouoji, you wanton wench, just look at what you've done."
Ouoji slitted her eyes in great satisfaction. And on the floor, the three cubs did the same.
Kelly went over to the cubs and squatted down in front of them. "May I?" he said to Ouoji, who blinked. Kelly extended his hand carefully and rested it on the floor. He did not want to startle the cubs in any way.
They looked at him a long while. Ouoji chittered, and the black cub walked forward on legs that were still unsteady. It crouched in the middle of Kelly's palm and curled its tail around his index finger.
Kelly picked it up and held it so that they were at eye level. The cub's purple eyes glowed into his, and Kelly felt some­thing nudge his mind. He held his breath.
"Traj," he said aloud. "His name is Traj."
Siggerson stepped forward. "How do you know? Did he tell you that?"
Kelly smiled and touched the tip of that tiny black nose. "I think so. Someone did."
The black cub wiggled. Kelly set him down hastily, and Traj made an awkward, playful leap at his two siblings.
Phila joined Kelly. "What are the others' names?" she asked.
"I don't know."
Ouoji jumped off 41 's bunk and walked between Kelly and Phila. She cuffed Traj, who grabbed his tail and rolled over like a furry ball. Ouoji glanced at Phila and chittered.
"You want me to pick one up?" asked Phila.
Ouoji swished her tail. Phila smiled and reached out for the darker of the two grays, but Ouoji bumped her hand to the pale gray cub instead.
"Okay, this one," said Phila. She scooped up the cub and lifted it as Kelly had done. For a moment everyone was silent, then a look of wonder crossed Phila's face. "They're tele­pathic," she said in excitement. She glanced at Kelly, then at 41. "Both of you knew they're telepathic."
"Of course," said 41.
"Why haven't you said anything about it?" asked Beaulieu. "Siggerson, did you know this?"
He shook his head, looking stunned. "No. She's never communicated with me." Ouoji clamped her ear flaps down tightly, and he added hastily, "At least, not mentally."
"Humans are low on esper abilities," said 41. "Most of the time it is not worth the trouble to break through."
"Oh, and you're a mind reader?" said Caesar sarcastically. He poured another round of gin for those who still held their glasses.
41 took a quick swallow of gin before Beaulieu snatched his glass away. "No, I do not read minds," he said. "Phila, what is the little one's name?"
Phila was still smiling, her hands cupped protectively around the pale cub. "Britta. She's a she."
"And who gets the last one?" asked Caesar.
Ouoji answered that by picking up the smoke-colored cub and taking it to 41 's bunk. 41's long fingers curled around it. He gazed into the cub's eyes a long time.
"Well?" said Phila at last.
41 looked up with a blink as though he had been far away. "He is Huf. And . . . and I wish to say to all of you, thank you for helping me."
They fell silent a moment, then Phila said, "You're a Hawk. We had to."
"We wanted to," said Beaulieu.
"Not the same without you," said Caesar.
"Indeed not," said Siggerson.
Caesar poured another round. "Now, a toast in honor of the christening."
They lifted their glasses. "To Ouoji," said Kelly. "We give
her honor and congratulations, and we welcome to the Sabre Huf, Britta, and Traj. Salut."
"To Ouoji," said the others and drained their glasses.
"We should break the glasses," said Siggerson, beaming.
Caesar rapped his sharply against the wall. "If you can manage to smash good old standard mess hall glasses, I'll give you my last bottle of gin."
Siggerson went right on beaming. "Let's talk about this," he said and slung his arm across Caesar's shoulders.
"That's right," said Beaulieu. "The rest of you clear out too. 41 needs some sleep, and I want some myself. Ouoji, where do your babies belong?"
Kelly glanced down and saw Traj trying to jump back and forth over his boot toe. The cub could see his reflection in its shiny surface. Kelly started to reach for him, but just as he bent over a warning klaxon sounded.
For a moment they froze, the merriment draining from their faces.
"Opie's pursuit ships," said Caesar.
Kelly scooped up Traj and Britta and piled them with Huf on 41 's bunk out of the way. "Siggerson, get to the engines. Make sure your patchwork is still holding."
Siggerson nodded and started out. "It could be the waver shield has dropped again."
Kelly turned to Beaulieu. "Batten down. Stand by with stimulants and oxygen support. We have hull damage that could reopen in maneuvers. We may have trouble keeping our seals."
She nodded. "Understood. 41, you stay in bed."
Kelly shook his head at 41, who had started to get up. "You stay here," he said.
"I am not dying now," said 41. "I can help."
"I want your help," said Kelly with a quick smile. "But not on the bridge. You wait down here until I give you the word."
41 subsided with a glower. "Make sure this is not just a trick to keep me out of the way."
Kelly thought ruefully that 41's pride was still as touchy as ever. "It's not. Caesar, you and Phila, come with me."
They went out in a rush, the alarm still clanging. Piling into the lift to go up, Caesar frowned at Kelly. "You think those pursuit ships found us?"
"I hope so," said Kelly worriedly. "I hope to God it's not something worse."
12
Kelly's prayer was not answered. They ran onto the bridge and activated the main viewscreen. Paralleling them were three frigates with Alliance registration numbers. An insistent light at the communications station announced that they were being hailed.
Phila seated herself hastily and glanced at Kelly.
He nodded, "Let's see what they have to say."
"Attention, Sabre," said the clipped, unmistakable tones of a Minzanese voice. "This is Captain Mushunshi of MSS Omu Kei. Please come to dead stop and prepare to be boarded. All Sabre personnel under arrest by order of Admiral Jedderson, Galactic Space Fleet. Resistance will be considered hostile action, and firing will commence."
Kelly swallowed and glanced around at the smoky, fire-damaged bridge. Phila was white-faced. Caesar muttered, "Damn, damn, damn," over and over again under his breath.
Kelly's own hand was clenched hard upon the edge of the master station. The time had come to face the consequences. They couldn't escape it.
But he wished so very much that they could have come in entirely of their own volition, the way they wanted to do it.
167
He signaled to Phila to open a line. "This is Commander Bryan Kelly. We acknowledge."
Mushunshi replied, "Wise of you, Commander. Prepare for boarding."
The line cut, and Kelly said, "Bring her to a full stop, Mr. Samms."
Caesar's skin looked glassy beneath his freckles. "Full stop. Aye, sir."
Phila opened the in-ship comm. "Attention, all hands. We are being boarded by Alliance personnel. Stand by your stations. Do not offer resistance."
"The teleport bay is clear," said Kelly to Mushunshi, glad that visual was not being transmitted from the Minzanese ship. He didn't want to see their faces; more importantly, he didn't want them to see his. Right now his skin was burning hot. His feet seemed to be far away. "Our force wall is inoperable. You are free to teleport at any time."
Siggerson came bursting from the lift. "Kelly, what are you doing!" he cried. "You can't surrender the ship. We have to bring her in ourselves. We—"
"Commander," said Phila formally. "Teleport incoming is completed. The Omu Kei party is aboard."
Kelly nodded, but said nothing. His gaze remained on the viewscreen. Images and memories of that long ago court-martial crowded his mind. He remembered the shame of it. The burning sense of no self-confidence. The desperate effort to justify his actions to himself as well as to the tribunal which had sat in judgment upon him. And now, it was going to happen all over again.
The comm buzzed. "Kelly!" said Beaulieu's voice. "What is going on? What—"
Her voice cut off. Kelly dropped his gaze a moment, knowing that sickbay was now under guard.
"They'll be up here any moment," said Caesar hoarsely. "We aren't just going to let them—"
"Yes, we are," said Kelly. "There will be no incidents. That's a direct order."
"It's also your last order," muttered Caesar.
The lift opened and a detail of security stepped onto the bridge. They wore force shields and carried drawn weapons. Swiftly they scattered to cover everyone on the bridge. Kelly's knuckles whitened briefly where he was still gripping the console, then he dropped his hand and forced himself to turn and face the boarding party.
He found himself looking at a Minzanese fleet officer in scarlet tunic and gold bars. Kelly lifted his chin. "Captain Mushunshi, I presume?"
Mushunshi bowed slightly. "Commander Kelly?"
"Yes, sir."
"Officially under arrest, Commander. You and crew."
Kelly's jaw clenched. He forced it to relax. "On what charges?"
Mushunshi unsealed a metal document holder and flipped it open. He read: "Dr. Antoinette Beaulieu, Pilot Olaf Siggerson, Operative Henry Samms, and Operative Phila Mohatsa are hereby charged with first degree conspiracy and disobedience of direct orders under General Sections 4 and 22. Specific counts are theft of MSS Sabre, willful destruction and ship's weapon deployment within station confines, security violations numbers 6 through 10, violation of classified files, illegal tapping of classified communications channels, unauthorized entry of station arsenal, theft of prototype weapons classified under secured research, theft of standard issue weapons, destruction of surveillance equipment, safety violations of proper hangar departure procedure, improper use of station disposal tubes, and kidnapping."
Kelly blinked at that last entry. Before he could speak, however, Mushunshi continued:
"Commander Kelly, you are charged with aiding and abet­ting your kidnappers, with having full knowledge and approval of all unlawful activities, and with failure to stop such activities as proscribed by your responsibilities as a commanding of­ficer."
Caesar jumped to his feet. "Wait a minute! You can't—"
"Caesar," said Kelly quietly, and Caesar sank back into his seat.
Mushunshi continued as though Caesar's outburst had not happened, "Operative 41 is charged with desertion, security violations under General Section 15, disobedience of direct orders, and resisting arrest." He glanced up. "Is Operative 41 aboard this vessel?"
"He is," said Kelly. "Let the record state that he is aboard of his own volition, not through coercion."
Mushunshi regarded him without expression. "No record is being taken at this time. Only charges have been read, and arrest made. You and crew will now be taken aboard Omu Kei for transport to security facilities on Earth."
Caesar rose to his feet, as did Phila. Siggerson stood like a pillar. Their eyes were all on Kelly, but there was nothing he could do.
He said, "Please transmit a message to Admiral Jedderson on my behalf stating that I wish to speak to him personally."
Mushunshi frowned. "Your rights permit access only to legal counsel."
"Not until we are officially incarcerated in detention," said Kelly. He opened the storage locker, despite the instinctive move of one of the guards to stop him, and drew out the hand scanner. "The data recorded inside this scanner has been collected for Jedderson. Will you send this information to him, with my compliments?"
"No," said Mushunshi. "All evidence remains aboard this ship. Nothing taken off."
Kelly knew that Internal Affairs could bury this evidence so deep no one would ever find it. He met Mushunshi's eyes with an unflinching ga/e.
"If you intend to go strictly by the book, Captain, you know that you cannot refuse to deliver information gathered on the personal order of Jedderson. This data has nothing to do with the charges that have been leveled against us. You have my word as an officer on that."
"Word of officer accused of—"
"Accused," snapped Kelly. "Not yet proven." He let the
silence stretch out a moment, then extended the scanner. "Will you submit the information via datatron to Admiral Jedder-son?"
Mushunshi frowned, obviously suspecting a trap in this request. No doubt the man had been instructed to make no technical errors that would invalidate the arrest.
"Jedderson made no personal request of you," he said at last.
"Do you know that for a fact?" asked Kelly.
"Internal Affairs gave me strict instructions—"
"Yes, but note that our course heading is toward the nearest station. Note also that we surrendered and let ourselves be boarded without resistance. We have exhibited no hostile actions toward you."
Mushunshi appeared to think it over. "Have noted your behavior. Goes into my report as arresting officer. But am not judge. Cannot make such decisions-—"
"This doesn't require a decision," said Kelly, once again extending the scanner. "I've given you my word that it is a matter separate from our case. But if it remains aboard the ship as evidence, it will be tied up in the proceedings possibly too late for Jedderson's office to make use of it. You may examine the recording's contents before you send it."
Mushunshi took the scanner and frowned at it. "Perhaps so."
Caesar moved as though to protest, but a sharp look from Kelly held him silent. Kelly had never heard of Mushunshi and had no idea of his calibre as an officer. He did not want to put their only chance of acquittal into this stranger's hands, but he had no choice.
Mushunshi put the scanner in his pocket and closed the warrant. "Please accompany security team to teleport."
Kelly nodded and gestured for Caesar, Phila, and Siggerson to file into the lift. He glanced one last time at Mushunshi, trying to read that inscrutable face.
Mushunshi's eyes narrowed. "Good fleet officers do as told. You Special Operations people allowed lax discipline. This is what comes of such practice."
The lift doors closed, and the lift descended. Kelly stared at the gridded floor beneath his feet, trying to get himself past the numbness, trying to think of whom he would hire for counsel. But his thoughts refused to connect.
Lifting his head, he met the gazes of his squad.
"We celebrated too soon," Phila said. "Bad luck."
"Kelly," said Siggerson worriedly. "What will happen to Ouoji and her cubs?"
"I don't know," said Kelly. "I'm sure Captain Mushunshi will treat them well."
"Better than us, probably," said Caesar.
"Probably," agreed Kelly.
There seemed to be nothing else left to say.
Twenty-eight days later, Kelly was summoned from his comfortable cell in the minimum-security wing and escorted by two uniformed guards to a deposition room. About three meters square, the room had a metal table and four uncomfort­able chairs, recording devices, a surveillance cam, nozzles fitted into the ceiling that could emit tranquilizing gas in case of prisoner disturbances, and a worn-out wall holo of a desert scene that was faded in places.
The room was familiar to Kelly. He'd been here six times before, making statements and answering questions in sessions that lasted for hours. His counsel usually came ahead of him, but today the man was absent. Kelly hadn't found him of much use so far, since he evaded giving Kelly any progress reports and seemed not to know when they would go to trial.
Left alone by the guards, Kelly idled about the room for a few moments, then seated himself at the table. He hated the waiting, the inactivity. He hated being separated from the others. He hated not knowing.
The door opened, but instead of his counsel or the interro­gators, Admiral Jedderson and Commodore West walked in. Their uniforms—one fleet scarlet, the other Special Operations black—stood out in marked contrast to the drab walls.
Kelly rose to his feet. Relief bubbled up into his throat. So
Captain Mushunshi had sent the message after all. It was going to be okay.
But neither Jedderson nor West smiled in greeting. Their faces remained solemn; their eyes were cold.
Kelly waited, but when no one spoke, he said, "I realize I have a lot of explaining to do—" •
"We've read the reports compiled by Internal Affairs," said Jedderson. Small-statured, almost scrawny, with a shock of straight white hair and eyes the color of granite, Fleet Admiral Jedderson was the first human in history to command the entire Allied Fleet. But long before he reached that career pinnacle, he had created Special Operations and given it its nickname from his own beloved, archaic hobby of falconry.
His voice was thin' and gravelly, harsh to listen to yet commanding attention. "You've disgraced the honor of your corps and flaunted every authority possible. You put personal interest ahead of your duty. You allowed sentiment to rule your better judgment. You were the best commander in Spec. Ops., and you threw all of it away."
Kelly's chin jutted. "I had good reason, sir."
"Good reason! You had nothing."
"We don't leave operatives behind. That's a tradition of the service which you began, sir."
"Don't tell me what I did! We're talking about your actions, Mr. Kelly. We're talking about honor and responsibility. We're talking about disgracing an elite force. The rules are often bent for Spec. Ops. to go in where the regular fleet cannot, but the rules are never shattered. You and your people shattered them, Kelly."
. Kelly had delivered enough reprimands himself to know that this one wasn't going to get lighter at the end. Jedderson's tone was icily controlled, but his fury was obvious. West wasn't even speaking. He didn't have to. His eyes agreed with everything Jedderson said.
The hope in Kelly sank. "You didn't get my message?"
"Message? No, I did not," said Jedderson. "By the stars, man, have you been mewling around, trying to get special
favors? Trying to pull strings? Trying to play on your father's reputation as well? I ought to kick your butt to Sector 2. The only reason I came here today was out of a courtesy to Victor Kelly. He's a damned fine officer, and he doesn't deserve the disgrace of a son like you."
Fire rose like a tide into Kelly's face. A fire that filled him with heat and roared in his ears. Desperately he managed to keep his own temper under control. He had one chance, if he could just get Jedderson to listen.
"Sir," he said, "are you aware that the Salukans are buying Alliance weapons and technology brokered through Harva Opie, the mercenary?"
Jedderson stared. "What?"
"Kelly," said West in a voice of dark displeasure, "don't reach for theories. You have no proof—"
"Yes, I do!" said Kelly. "Furthermore, we found a new kind of ship under development for Salukan purchase. A borg ship."
"A what?" said Jedderson and West in unison. They glared at each other, and West took over.
"Kelly, do you mean a cyborged ship? One run by . . ."
"That's right," said Kelly when West's voice faded out. "A human, Minzanese, or Salukan brain plugged in for piloting. The ship is located in a hangar within Opie's headquarters on Methanus. One of my operatives entered the ship, recorded its specifications, and stole some of the circuit boards. We believe that it is vital the Alliance know about this technology and its potential effect upon Salukan—"
Jedderson lifted his head. "Enough. What the hell is this about, West? Have you been running this squad in deep covert operations? Did you plant that operative on Methanus, order him to look like a deserter just for the excuse of spreading agents all over that miserable hunk of rock?"
West opened his mouth, glanced at Kelly, then shut it again.
Jedderson narrowed his gaze, regarding Kelly for several seconds, then he bounced himself twice on his toes. "Where is
this proof?" he asked finally. "Why hasn't it been brought forward?"
"The scanner was given to Captain Mushunshi," said Kelly. "I told him it contained information gathered on your orders, sir. Uh, I didn't want it snarled up in the red tape of evidence. It should be examined by experts as soon as possible. I thought Mushunshi had sent it to you."
"No."
Jedderson and West looked at each other. Kelly watched them, trying not to tense up. He hoped Mushunshi hadn't destroyed the scanner or lost it or given it to Internal Affairs.
"Where is this captain?" asked Jedderson.
West frowned. "I believe he's still aboard the Sabre. Brought her in yesterday. She's badly shot up." He glared at Kelly. "And that's another thing. You're given the best ship available and you treat it like—"
"Never mind," said Jedderson. "I want Mushunshi to report to me. I want to see that scanner."
West touched his wrist communicator, and the door promptly opened. Jedderson strode out, but West glanced back at Kelly.
"You'd better have something," he said.
Kelly just nodded in silence. His palms were sweating.
He went through the rest of the day shift in his cell, pacing and worrying and waiting. The night shift passed like an eternity while he lay sleepless on his bunk. When the lights came on, he jerked upright and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.
A guard came in and tossed him a dress uniform. "Judgment day," he said cheerfully. "Your verdict is in half an hour. Get ready."
Kelly swung himself off his bunk and entered the tiny head for a quick shower. He programmed it on the hardest possible setting, but the stinging jets of water failed to pummel away the tension binding his shoulders. Pulling on the black and silver tunic, he found the collar bearing his rank insignia stiff and
heavy against his throat. He remembered the restraint collar put on by Taft, now long gone.
Smoothing his hand across the cloth, he stood a moment in the center of his quarters. He knew he should eat, but he knew nothing would go down. He wished, with a sudden, hard intensity, that he had called his mother and told her what was happening. He thought that she would understand his reasons, no matter how great the disgrace.
The guard opened the door. "Time to go."
The pit of Kelly's stomach went weak and hollow. He squared his shoulders and strode out with his escort, chin up and elbows neat against his sides, allowing nothing to show on his face.
Because of the classified material included as part of the evidence, the court had to be a closed one. Other than a phalanx of guards standing at crisp attention in a semi-circle along the curved walls, there were no spectators and no cams from broadcast information networks.
A low railing formed a square before the tall bench of the tribunal. His squad stood penned inside it, stiff and silent in their uniforms. The flags of the Alliance hung suspended from the cone-shaped ceiling. The air was warm and hushed.
On the other side, opposite the defendent box, stood Aron Kranst, head of Internal Affairs, with his chief prosecutor and two investigators. West also stood there, and he and Kranst were arguing in low, furious voices.
Kelly glanced at them, then stepped into the defendent box with his squad. Their eyes were strained; their expressions as solemn as he had ever seen them.
Caesar cocked his head in Kranst's direction, crossed his eyes, and gave Kelly a quick thumbs up. The skin tightened around Kelly's eyes as he almost smiled. He faced the tribunal.
The chief judge was Minzanese, so old that his skin was criss-crossed with thousands of tiny wrinkles. His green hair tassles bobbed as he bent his head over the documents before him. His fingers shuffled delicately through the papers, send­ing dry flutters of sound through the great chamber.
Clearing his throat, he called the court to order. Kranst and West broke off their argument. West came striding over to the defendent's box and stood near Kelly. Only the railing separated them, but its symbolic significance was not lost on Kelly.
"This is formality," said the chief judge in a brittle voice that did not carry well through the accoustics of the stuffy room. "Internal Affairs has charged defendents with violations and improper procedures. All charges have been recorded." His hand gestured toward a sleek, featureless computer console at the far end of the bench. "Counsels for each side will certify that entry of charges is correct."
Kelly glanced around for his counsel, but did not see the man anywhere. Perhaps he had seen the cause as a lost one, and had abandoned it.
West stepped forward to certify for the defendents. Kelly watched in surprise, and he sensed a faint stir through the squad at his back.
The chief judge peered at Kelly through small dim eyes. "New evidence was delivered to this court, evidence which was tardy and ill-presented, evidence which refutes all charges levied."
All the blood seemed to drain from Kelly's head. Through a roaring in his ears, he struggled to hear.
"Therefore, charges have been dropped by court. All defen­dents are cleared under Clause 7 of Expediency of Covert Operations Act. Nothing shall blacken defendents in service records. Court dismissed."
Kelly stood a moment, unable to believe it was over until hands grabbed him from all sides and he was spun around to face his jubilant squad.
"Clause 7!" said Caesar, grinning broadly. "Good old Clause 7. Whatever it means, I love it. I'll even kiss the book it's written in."
A smile spread across Kelly's face. From somewhere in his memory came the words. He said, "Spies and undercover agents operating covertly by direct order for the specific
purposes of gathering information vital to Alliance security and well-being cannot be held accountable for damage inadvert­ently inflicted upon property, goods, and services during said execution of mission."
Beaulieu lit up. "You're kidding. It really says that?"
Phila was doing a little jig around the perimeter of the defendent box.
41 stepped out of her way. "What is the punishment?"
"No punishment," said Kelly, still not quite daring to believe it. He slapped 41's shoulder. "None at all!"
"Don't be so sure of that," growled West from behind him. "All of you, come with me."
They sobered up somewhat, although Phila and Caesar kept breaking into broad grins. They filed out of the defendent box, and Beaulieu gazed across the courtroom at the glowering Kranst and shot him an ancient, ethnic, unquestionably insult­ing gesture.
Kelly's brows went up.
Her eyes met his with defiance. "I will not have my medical abilities downgraded by a brass-buttoned, bureaucratic para­noid with high blood-pressure," she said. "I'll bet you a month's pay he couldn't disassemble his own shower head, much less—"
"Kelly!" snapped West from the doorway of a small antechamber. "Get in here now."
"Yes, sir." Kelly glanced at Beaulieu and smiled. "No takers."
Inside, they found Jedderson waiting for them, along with Ouoji and the cubs. Traj, Britta, and Huf had grown and plumped out. They were busy batting at each other in play beneath the admiral's chair. But when the squad entered, they came running in energetic bounces to bump and jump and chitter greetings.
In the general commotion, the Minzanese judge slipped inside. Jedderson rose to his feet.
"Pipe down," said West, and everyone obeyed.
The judge couldn't keep his eyes off the cubs. He bowed to
Ouoji, who slitted her eyes in complacent pride. "Great honor," he whispered. "Great honor indeed. Cubs born away from protected environment of our world is rarity. Down through our history, ouojis have traveled with us on ships. But as they became fewer in number and rare, so did fewer of them choose to venture into space. Have the cubs shared their names?"
"Yes," said Kelly. "When they were about a day old." He pointed. "That's Traj. That's Britta. And Huf."
"Great honor," murmured the judge, his eyes round. "Some ouojis never give name."
Kelly glanced at Siggerson, then at Ouoji. She raised her ear flaps and made her blue eyes look guileless; she had never shared her name.
"Planetary treasure," said the judge. "Must inform Minister of—"
"Uh, sir," said Kelly hastily, appealing to Jedderson and West in turn. "Can't they stay on board with us?"
"What makes you so sure you still have a ship or a command?" snapped West.
Jedderson lifted his hand. "Now, Halsey, don't be a grouch."
"We could have avoided half of this if they-"
"Well, they didn't. And they've proven their worth once again. I'm entirely satisfied with the job they did," said Jedderson. Having shut up West, he turned to Kelly. "It seems to me that if your ouoji chose to have her cubs on board your ship—and Judge Sumsh assures me that ouoji females can choose their time of birth almost down to the hour—then that indicates she wants her offspring on the ship. I have no problem with that."
Kelly smiled with relief. "Good. I—"
Ouoji stepped forward with a lash of her tail and started chittering emphatically.
Jedderson frowned. "What's she saying? Does anyone's translator decipher—"
"No, no," said the judge with little patting gestures. "Not possible in that way. I have not ability to—"
41 crouched down in front of Ouoji and placed his fingertip on her round head. They communed in silence for a moment, then 41 rose to his feet. "She wishes the cubs to be educated in the kushi monatat."
"The place of rearing," said the judge. His old eyes lit up, and he bowed to Ouoji. "Great honor. All wishes shall be done."
"No," said Phila, frowning. "You mean we can't keep them?"
"They are not ours," said 41. "They shared with us, but we do not own them. They must be trained by their own kind. Ouoji will remain with us."
Ouoji lashed her tail, and the cubs lined up behind the judge, following him out with their tails politely erect.
"What happens to us?" asked Kelly.
Jedderson nodded at West, who said curtly, "You get your tails back on the Sabre and dig out her repair manuals. I want her cleaned up, repaired, and shipshape—ready for duty—by the time you reach Station 4."
Kelly waited a moment. Was that all?
Siggerson shook his head worriedly. "What about the hull? That split—"
"Is being welded now. Get your gear aboard. And before you ask, Operative Samms, there will be no leave privileges!"
Caesar hastily shut his mouth.
West's gaze snapped back to Kelly. "Have my gear shifted to the guest quarters. I'll be aboard as soon as I finish clearing up a few matters with Kranst."
Kelly held back any expression at all, but he did not relish the thought of a senior officer in their close proximity all the way to Station 4. "Uh, Commodore, wouldn't you be more comfortable—"
"Probably," snapped West, "but you won't get rid of me that way. Just be glad you're out of this in one piece."
"Yes, sir," said Kelly. "Very glad."
"Dismissed."
They headed out the door in a rush. At the rear, Kelly glanced back at Jedderson to send him a look of thanks.
"You did it, Kelly," said Jedderson as though reading his mind. Then his gruff old face relaxed into a smile, and he gave Kelly a thumbs up. "The best of the Hawks. The best damned commander we've got. Good work."